


Polarity

by Acacia Carter (xaandria)



Series: Long Way Down [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Aurors, M/M, Organized Crime, Roommates, Slash, TW: Implied Non-Con
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-01-04
Updated: 2012-09-15
Packaged: 2017-10-28 21:01:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 27,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/312142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xaandria/pseuds/Acacia%20Carter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco ought to have expected he’d end up dying facedown in an alley, but nothing could have prepared him for the events or the friendships - and more - that would follow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Gratitude

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger Warnings: Later chapters will include implied non-con memories. It will not be explicit and no non-con sexual activity happens on-screen in this story, so I have not used the non-con archive warning. I would still advise the reader to continue with this in mind, because only you know your own threshold.

Draco was dying.

In retrospect, he reflected, watching helplessly as his blood mingled lazily with the rainfall on the cobblestones, he supposed he should have expected to die facedown in an alley. He really wasn't worth much more nowadays. He did wish he could have fallen in a more dignified position. Had he not already lost all feeling in his limbs, he was sure his arm would be asleep by now, crumpled under him like this – it was broken, too, if he was any judge.

His vision fuzzed in and out, and he was finding it more and more difficult to breathe. Part of the reason for that was the Body-Bind the last tosser had thrown at him, just before kicking him in the ribs and Disapparating. Part of it was no doubt a result of the rib-kicking. Most of it was probably just his body shutting down.

He could hear faint footfalls in the alley. They seemed to echo strangely within his head. Two feet stopped before his face, and he rolled his eyes up, unable to focus on anything except the black robes and the hand holding the wand. The hood of the newcomer's cloak was pulled up over the person's face, which was just as well, since Draco couldn't see further than a few feet anyway. He wasn't sure if the darkness was because of the hour or because of his rapidly failing body. He dropped his eyes and finally closed them, too exhausted to keep them open any longer.

The feet paced the length of his body, and then there was the sound of shifting wet cloth. " _Finite incantatem_ ," a naggingly familiar voice said, close enough to indicate that he had knelt down, and in a moment of supreme agony that made Draco whimper and twitch, the newcomer turned Draco onto his back. There was a strangled gasp. "Blimey." Draco still couldn't place exactly where he'd heard that voice before. A deep breath, and then an incantation in a low tone that Draco could not quite make out except in odd snatches: _"Vieo tergum... subsisto... crudus vigoratus..."_

As the man continued the spell, Draco could feel the skin on his chest and neck crawling. It was not a pleasant sensation. The newcomer pushed his hood back with the hand that was not holding the wand, and Draco felt a distant shock of recognition at the dark blond hair, the high cheekbones, the hazel eyes. His face had become leaner in the years since Draco had last seen him, but he was still easy to identify. And Longbottom was still the last person Draco thought he'd ever see tending his wounds.

Longbottom did not meet his eyes, concentrating as he was on the bloody gashes on Draco's torso. The curse that had bestowed them had torn slashes into the black silk shirt; Longbottom ripped the slashes open more to better see what he was doing.

"You've probably got a fair few broken ribs," he said finally, after a few beats of silence when he finished the incantation. "Looks like a broken arm, too. I can fix those, but not here." There was a pause as Longbottom considered him intently. "Are you going to throw a strop if I try to carry you? Your ribs aren't broken badly; I can probably move you safely."

Draco licked his lips. Bloody hell - a few of his bottom teeth felt loose. "I can walk." It came out as half a croak, half a whisper.

Longbottom snorted. "Like hell you can. If all this is yours, you've lost a good three pints of blood. That's not counting what your clothes have soaked up. I'm surprised you're conscious. The good news is that if you were bleeding internally, you'd be dead by now. So. Are you going to let me carry you? I doubt you'd put up with the indignity of _Levicorpu_ _s,_ but if you'd rather..."

The notion of being hoisted up by his ankle made every muscle in his body cringe. But the idea of being cradled by Longbottom was nearly as painful to his pride.

Fuck it. Draco's pride and body were both so bruised by now that it hardly made any difference. He nodded once, curtly, and closed his eyes against the giddiness the motion caused. Through the dizziness, he almost missed being gently turned over onto his stomach, but it was impossible to miss the agonizing jolts as Longbottom heaved and shifted him into place across his shoulders. Draco had just a moment to wonder where Longbottom had got such shoulders before a wave of vertigo crashed into him and his head spun, lights dancing before his eyes. He felt as though he were floating upwards, away from himself, and the lights before his eyes coalesced and blinded him...

* * *

The bed sheets he was sleeping on were absolutely abysmal. They were worse than the burlap he'd had to sleep on at school. He opened his eyes, ready to march right down to the front desk and demand his money back for the room when, with a crash that made his ears ring, the pain set fire to every nerve, and he grit his teeth and screwed up his eyes against the howl of agony that had built in his chest.

"Good. You're awake. Does it hurt?" A cool hand touched his forehead and Draco cringed away. "Don't be like that. Hold still, will you? I'm trying to make it stop." The hand returned and pressed Draco's head into the pillow, a spell being muttered in an undertone, and through the pain Draco could faintly feel a wand tip being dragged down his sternum. Almost immediately, the pain began to recede to a faint burning that seemed to settle within Draco's bones, and the hand left his forehead. Draco opened his eyes gingerly.

"You had quite an interesting few hours," Longbottom said as he settled himself into a chair next to the bed. At his feet next to the chair was a book, tented open to hold his place, and a bottle of brown ale that was half-empty. "There was lots of thrashing about. I had to hold you down before you made your arm worse. I'm a fair hand at knitting bones, but it's best if you're awake."

Draco closed his eyes for a moment. He'd half-hoped that it had been some delusion, Longbottom coming to his rescue like some bloody knight, but apparently not. His arm felt as though it was made of some terrible molten stone, and every breath pricked his chest with hot spikes of pain. His skin felt too tight for him and ached when he shifted. They'd really done a number on him. Judging by the two empty flasks on the bedside table, it had taken two blood-replenishing potions to stir him back to consciousness. He wondered how much of that new blood was flooding the bruises he could feel, still crawling in their slow bloom across his skin.

"Are you ready?" Longbottom asked as he gestured with his wand.

"For what?" His voice sounded so frail, still barely more than a whisper. He wanted to make a face but stayed as stoic as he possibly could.

"For me to mend your arm. It's a bad break, but..." Longbottom shrugged. "I've done worse."

An attempt to shrug sent pangs of agony through Draco's chest, and he winced. "Whatever you want, Longbottom."

Longbottom's lips twisted in annoyance. He got up from his chair anyway. "Hold still. This is... going to hurt." He grimaced. "You may want to bite down on something."

It wasn't much of a glare that Draco shot at Longbottom, but it was the best he could do under the circumstances. Draco wasn't exactly a stranger to pain, after all. Maybe Longbottom couldn't handle a bone being set. Draco was made of stronger stuff than that. He did, however, set his jaw and furrow his brow, staring straight up at the ceiling as Longbottom gently took his arm and set it straight on the covers. He took a deep breath and pointed his wand.

Draco didn't even hear the incantation Longbottom used. The grinding, wrenching sensation lanced up his arm like a hot smear, and despite Draco's preparations, a guttural exclamation of agony tore from his throat and his back arched off the bed. Almost before his back returned to the bed, the sensation was gone and replaced by nothing but a dull ache that throbbed with his quickened heartbeat. Breathing heavily, ignoring the stabs in his ribs as he did so, Draco lifted his arm, flexing his fingers, watching the tendons dance across the back of his forearm.

"Neat work," he said grudgingly, attempting at the last moment to insert some sarcasm. He'd never learned to set bones himself. Whatever Longbottom had been doing these years, at least it was something useful.

"Thanks," Longbottom said wryly. "Now for your ribs. Those are easier. Lie still for me."

The last time Draco had heard that request, it had been in a much less innocuous context. Rather than gulp and betray the sudden stab of anxiety, he schooled himself to stillness, and felt gooseflesh erupt on his arms and chest as Longbottom pulled down the sheet to expose his bare torso, slick with sweat from the pain.

"I have to work out which ribs need mending," Longbottom said seriously, looking intently into Draco's eyes with a sternness that was completely unsuited to his face. "That means I have to touch each one, and not gently. Are you going to be okay with that?"

Draco licked his lips. "I don't have much of a choice, do I?"

Blinking, as though taken aback, Longbottom frowned. "Of course you do. I can just leave them alone and let them heal on their own. Or we can go to St Mungo's and let them do it... although that's a very bad choice just now."

"Why?" Draco already knew the answer. He wanted to see if Longbottom knew as well.

Longbottom shot him a look that plainly said he knew he was being played with. Damn, he'd changed since school. "You've made some dangerous enemies. Enemies like those have a way of making sure you die of your injuries, despite the 'best efforts' of the Healers."

So Longbottom was well-informed. Odd. Draco had expected a bloke like him to disappear into a corner somewhere and live quietly after the events in their last year at school. But then, Longbottom had been doing all sorts of unexpected things in the past few hours, not least showing an astounding amount of competency Draco would have bet good money he'd never even approach.

He set his jaw again. "Go ahead."

Careful fingers began prodding his chest and sides, and as he'd promised, it was not gentle. Draco grunted as Longbottom discovered each broken rib, or pressed a particularly painful bruise, but otherwise, he said nothing. Longbottom was similarly quiet, brow furrowed as he concentrated. His hair fell into his eyes a few times and he absently swept it back with one hand, not once taking his eyes off his work.

"This will be a lot easier if you relax," he finally said, glancing up at Draco's face. "Tensing up makes it hard to feel if they're broken."

"Right. Because having a strange bloke poke my broken ribs is so relaxing."

"I'm not a strange bloke. You know me. Probably better than you know some of the other men I've heard you keep company with."

Draco bit off a stinging reply to that. "Leave my personal life out of this, Longbottom," he said warningly.

"Sorry." For what it was worth, he did sound apologetic. "Just try to release some of the tension. It'll make things loads easier."

Closing his eyes, Draco tried to loosen the muscles in his chest. It was not easy, not with Longbottom sliding his fingers along each rib and making him want to tense up again. He was too tired to seriously ponder how long it had been since he'd been touched by anyone at all, and now, it was not only in such a detached and clinical way; it was by _Longbottom_ , of all people.

"You've got three broken ribs on your left side," the other man said finally as he reached for his wand. "And a hell of a lot that are bruised. Shall I mend them for you, or shall I let your body do its work?"

"Will it be as clumsy as when you did my arm?" Draco shot at him. He was a little surprised, but greatly satisfied, when anger flashed in Longbottom's eyes.

"There are two sheets of muscle holding your ribs in place," he replied evenly, making as though to put his wand back into the holster at his hip. "They act like a splint. You'll be fine in a month or two."

"No," Draco said suddenly. "I - go ahead. Do it." He grimaced inwardly. "Please."

Longbottom held his gaze for a long moment, during which Draco was fairly sure he was just going to get up and leave the room. But he drew his wand from the holster he'd half-stowed it in and positioned it carefully.

" _Rescarcio osseus_ ," he said, and rather than pain, there was a simple jolt in Draco's side, and then the dull throbbing ache to match his arm. He took an experimental breath; the stabbing was gone.

Well, he may as well do something with that deep breath. "Thanks," he said. Reluctantly. It was not a phrase he used often. Longbottom did not respond, but simply stowed his wand back in its holster.

The debilitating pain gone, Draco pushed himself up to a sitting position in the bed. He was surprised to find how exhausted he was, how difficult the simple motion had become.

"That should do you, for now," Longbottom said.

Draco nodded. "I'll be going, then."

"Will you?" Longbottom asked, and there was definitely a hint of amusement there.

"Yeah," Draco said challengingly, "I will." He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up, ignoring how light-headed the action made him. He just needed a moment, time for his body to get used to being vertical...

Blinking away the blackness that had settled like an inkblot in front of his eyes, he became dimly aware that he was crumpled in someone's arms, and that someone was hoisting him back onto the bed. He could only have been out for a second or two, and yet he was completely disoriented. He shook his head, shame beginning to kindle within his chest as Longbottom drew the duvet over him.

"You're not going anywhere for a while," he said. "Your body just used up a good three months of energy to heal itself instantly. You're going to need a lot of rest. And food." He heaved a sigh, a resigned look clouding his face. "And a place to hide, unless I miss my guess. The Leaky Cauldron is hardly anonymous."

A slight flutter of panic began in a counterpoint to the prickle of shame in Draco's middle. "I can take care of myself."

Longbottom snorted. "They took your wand, genius. You can't even stand. They're going to be watching the hospitals and the houses of your friends - the ones you've got left. How exactly do you propose taking care of yourself?" He watched Draco with that maddening gaze as he sputtered, the shame in his chest now a bonfire that heated his face with a faint flush. "I had plenty of time to think while you were busy being delirious. There's nothing for it. As soon as you can stand for more than thirty seconds without passing out, we're heading to my place. They're less likely to look for you there. Right away, anyway."

A third feeling bloomed in Draco's chest; it took a moment for him to recognize the tiny spark of gratitude, overshadowed as it was by the great blaze of shame. "You could have just left me," he mumbled, only half-realizing he was saying it aloud. "I'd have been dead and not your problem."

"The thought crossed my mind," Longbottom said flatly. He sat back down in his chair and picked up his book.

"So why didn't you?" Draco asked. Longbottom looked up, arching an eyebrow.

"The thought crossed my mind. And I'm ashamed and appalled it did. If I'd left you there, I wouldn't have been able to look myself in the mirror for the rest of my life. Now get some sleep. I want to move you this afternoon."

"Bloody fucking Gryffindor," Draco mumbled.

"That's right. And you should be grateful I'm a bloody fucking Gryffindor, or you wouldn't be here."

Oh, he was. There was no mistaking that emotion that sang in a minor key to his shame, accentuating it and making it sharper. He just wasn't going to let it show.


	2. History

It was dark again when Draco shook off the black manacles of sleep. Longbottom was not in the chair next to the bed; by the light of the single candle, Draco could see that the other man was nowhere in the small room.

Slowly, Draco sat up, grunting as his skin pulled at the multiple bruises that made a varicoloured tapestry of his chest and arms. Every muscle seemed sore as well, and they shook with the effort of keeping him upright. Any dim ideas he'd had about escaping before Longbottom got back were stopped in their tracks by how weak he felt.

He hated it. This time yesterday, he'd been just fine, spectacular, and now, he was a mewling invalid at the mercy of _Longbottom_ , for fuck's sake. Of all the wizards in London who could have stumbled across Draco, it had to be _him_.

As though thinking about him had summoned him, the door to the room opened and Longbottom walked in, a bundle of cloth in his arms. "Good. You're up. Put these on and we'll head out." He tossed the bundle at Draco, who caught it and was slightly surprised to find that it was the shirt and trousers he'd been wearing before. They looked new, no longer soaked with blood and ripped to ribbons. Draco did not stop to ask how Longbottom had managed it; he merely swung the silk around his shoulders and began to work the buttons.

"What were you even doing in Knockturn Alley last night?" Draco demanded, because it was on his mind and he felt oddly exposed with Longbottom watching him dress in silence. "Why is it that you had to be the one to find me?"

Longbottom raised an eyebrow at Draco's tone. "I was staking out Borgin and Burke's, actually. It's the sort of busy work I get to do while my partner's off on his honeymoon."

"Stakeout? You're a...?"

"An Auror, yes. Why, is that a shock to you?" There was a grim note of satisfaction in Longbottom's voice.

As a matter of fact, it was. Draco had been about to say "Hit-Wizard." At least that was conceivable, with Longbottom's size and keenness to do as he was told. But an Auror? That required actual brains and skill... which, Draco grudgingly admitted to himself, Longbottom had showcased in spades over the last day.

"So they're teaching Aurors all those fancy Healing spells now, huh?" Draco asked as he shifted on the bed so his legs hung down over the edge. He unfolded the trousers.

"No. I learned those on the side. They're handy to know, especially with Ha- ... with a partner like mine. Great lump can't go a week without breaking something." Despite the needling words, there seemed to be some real affection behind them, but Draco was too distracted at that moment to ponder that or the way Longbottom had caught himself and stuttered.

The problem was that there was no dignified way to pull the trousers up without standing. Draco was not going to flail about on his back on the bed with his legs in the air for Longbottom's entertainment. He raised himself up to a shaky standing position slowly, steadying himself on the footboard of the bed, and awkwardly pulled up his trousers with one hand, his back to Longbottom.

"You tell anyone about any of this and I will end you," Draco said, more to fill the silence than anything. It sounded pitiful, and even he knew it. He could just see the self-satisfied grin that must be on Longbottom's face now, their roles reversed and Draco the weak one.

"Seeing as how me telling anyone would mean my flat broken into and you dead, you can probably trust me to say nothing." Oddly, Longbottom didn't sound the slightest bit amused, or even annoyed by the feeble threat. What did it take to get a rise out of him? "Your shoes are at the foot of the bed." Draco found them and stepped into them, grateful they didn't have laces. He didn't think he could handle bending over just at the moment.

"All right," Longbottom said, once Draco had situated himself, "take my arm." Draco stopped and shot Longbottom a look that should have been able to shatter glass if he hadn't been so exhausted. Longbottom appeared unfazed. "You're not going two steps if you don't have something to lean against. Now swallow your bloody pride and take my arm."

"Stop treating me like a three-year-old," Draco snapped.

"Stop acting like one."

"I'm not acting like a three-year-old," Draco said, his temper leaping to take over his words. "I'm acting like my life is in tatters, I'm on the run from some very dangerous people, I've just recovered from several mortal injuries, and I'm beholden to the last person on Earth I want to owe anything to. You might try for a smidgeon of empathy and stop lording it over me." He sat back down, hard, on the bed. Even being angry tired him out.

Longbottom looked stricken. He ran a hand through his hair, standing it up on end, and sighed. "You're right. I'm sorry. I'm..." he paused, his brows furrowed as though trying to work out what to say. "I'm having trouble with old prejudices, too." He took a step closer to the bed. "If you think you can make it down the stairs on your own, let's get going. If not... well, I'm here. Either way, it's time to leave."

Draco shook his head. He wasn't sure he could walk, even with Longbottom supporting him. Going down a flight of stairs seemed as simple as flying to the moon. He pushed himself to his feet anyway, and as his balance wavered and he lurched to the side, he felt the other man catch him. When he got past the shame of it, it was oddly comforting. He'd never had anyone ready to catch him if he stumbled before. He'd never let his guard down long enough to reveal he might ever stumble.

The stairs proved to be every bit as difficult as he'd imagined, and by the time they reached the bottom. Longbottom was no longer simply supporting him but actively holding him up, having pulled Draco's arm over his shoulder and wrapped one arm around his waist to support his weight. It was all Draco could do to keep his feet as Longbottom pulled him along through the common room of the Leaky Cauldron, looking every inch a drunken patron being lugged home.

They paused outside next to a silver Muggle automobile, and Longbottom leaned him against it before digging through his pockets. It took a moment before the realisation smacked into Draco's consciousness.

"You drive?" he blurted.

Longbottom raised an eyebrow at him. "Do you want to Apparate right now?"

Just the thought of that constriction pressing his sore muscles made Draco wince. "No, but... it's so... _Muggle_."

The answering shrug was studiously nonchalant. "I hate Apparating. I avoid it when I can. Broomsticks and I don't get along." He fished a set of keys from his pocket and looked piercingly at Draco. "And I think you might be able to empathise with my reluctance to travel by Floo powder." He began to walk around the back of the car to the driver's side door.

The implication of the statement eluded Draco. He didn't want to admit missing the meaning, but... "What?"

The long moment during which Longbottom studied him was galling. "Fire," he said finally said, his voice oddly strained, and then continued his path to the driver's side door.

The significance snapped into place. He'd not witnessed it himself, but everyone knew how Longbottom had been set aflame by the Dark Lord, just before he'd drawn the Sword of Gryffindor and killed the snake. Draco hadn't thought anyone knew about his own anxiety around fire, born in those moments when the terrible searing heat of the Fiendfyre had threatened to consume him... before his unlikely rescue by yet another goddamn Gryffindor.

He swallowed, looking up across the top of the car as Longbottom unlocked it. "It's peculiar."

"What is?" Longbottom asked.

"Having something in common with you." He licked his lips. "Not many people know about the fire."

"Harry told me." There was a momentary introspective look on Longbottom's face. "It is, a bit. Peculiar, I mean." He gave his head a little shake and then nodded at Draco's car door. "Get in. Let's not stand on the street too long. No one was watching five minutes ago, but a lot can happen in five minutes."

* * *

Draco had never been in a car before. His father wouldn't have been caught dead travelling in such a devastatingly Muggle way, and he extended that to every member of the family. Even since his parents had left the country to start anew, Draco staying behind for various reasons, he had never considered automobiles to be a form of transport. He hadn't so much avoided them as ignored them.

He stayed very quiet, partly out of exhaustion and partly because it seemed like a complicated thing to drive a car, not at all like a broomstick, and Longbottom would probably need every shred of concentration he could muster to get them wherever they were going without killing them both. At first, it had seemed that his inference was correct, as Longbottom did not speak either and stared straight ahead, occasionally glancing into mirrors and fiddling with levers. But after a few minutes of this, he cleared this throat.

"Seeing as how I'm risking my neck for you, maybe you could tell me why you're on the bad side of the Brotherhood of the Sphinx."

Oh hell, Draco had been hoping this question wouldn't come. "I...embarrassed one of them."

Longbottom let out a long, slow sigh through his nose, closing his eyes for just a moment (which caused no small amount of anxiety to Draco - he was fairly certain that eyes were supposed to remain open when driving). "Are you serious? You blackmailed a member of the Brotherhood?"

_Damn, he was sharp_ _._ "I never said blackmail."

Longbottom actually took his eyes off the road to glare at Draco. "Contrary to your belief when we were at school, Malfoy, I am not a complete idiot."

"Watch the road!" Draco said in a strangled voice.

"I am watching the road, you twit - it's been ten years since I was a naive thirteen-year-old, and I'd appreciate it if you acknowledged that I may have come a bit of a ways since then."

"Acknowledged! Just keep your eyes on the bloody road!" Draco was holding onto one of the handles on the door tightly enough to turn his knuckles white. He vaguely wondered if that was what those handles were for. To his vast relief, Longbottom turned and faced forward again.

"So. You're blackmailing the Brotherhood." He shook his head in disbelief.

"No. I just...know something they'd rather I forget." It wasn't a complete lie. Longbottom glanced over at him.

"Fine. I'll accept that - for now." He fell silent again, and they rolled to a stop at an intersection. The sound of traffic was the only noise.

"Why are you helping me?" Draco finally asked, unable to fall asleep in this Muggle death trap and made anxious by the silence.

There was a pause as Longbottom pursed his lips. "Harry vouched for you. Said you're a decent guy who didn't have any good decisions available to him. I trust his judgment."

Draco blinked. "Potter said that?"

Longbottom nodded. "Short time after your hearing at the Ministry. I was a bit put out with him for speaking on your behalf. He practically wrote me a thesis as to why you deserved it." The light above them turned from red to green, and the car began to move forward. "Defended you nearly as much to me as he did to the Ministry."

There it was again. Potter's inexplicable defence of Draco and his family, in the months following the end of the war, would probably colour how everyone saw him for the rest of his life. Draco was not sure he'd ever be able to forgive or thank Potter for it. Not that he was sure he'd ever have the opportunity - he'd not seen Potter for several years, now. Not since... well. They didn't exactly move in the same social circles, if Draco's situation could be termed a "social circle" at all.

Still... "You trust Potter's judgment? Are you mental?"

That drew a smile from Longbottom, a bit of a chuckle. "It's saved my life a few times. Nearly killed me a few times, too, I'll admit, but that's part of the job. We're a good team, and we work well together." He spun the wheel he was holding and the car turned off the main thoroughfare.

"Wait. Potter's your partner?" Longbottom nodded. Draco sank back into thoughtfulness for a moment. He'd have pegged the Witless Weasley Wonder to be the sure fit as Potter's wingman in the Auror department. He wondered where things had gone awry.

"We've been partners for two years now. He's been an Auror a year longer than me, of course. It was pure luck that we ended up partners. He's on holiday for a few weeks, I think I mentioned."

"His honeymoon, you said." Interesting. There, just the tiniest flinch in Longbottom's left eyelid. Had Draco blinked, he'd have missed it. As it was, with Longbottom's face so impassive, Draco wasn't certain he'd seen it at all.

"Got married last week. Ginny Weasley. They're in Greece at the moment." His tone was flat, studiously indifferent. Draco filed that information away as potentially useful.

"You still haven't explained why you're helping me. You've danced around it rather skilfully."

"I have, haven't I?" Longbottom turned another corner, but didn't continue.

"That's maddening."

"I know. Harry hates when I do it too." There were a few beats of silence. "We're not thirteen years old anymore."

"This is a true statement." Draco looked out the window at the buildings scrolling by. It was odd seeing a city go by like this. Muggle transport just took so much _time_.

"I don't think you ever really had anything against me in school." The statement was almost accusatory.

Draco shrugged. "You were an easy mark. You _made_ yourself an easy mark. You have to know it was impossible to resist."

Longbottom's lips pressed together into a thin line. "I'll give you that. I was a right mess." Another block went by. "But we're past that. You're not evil incarnate. I'm not a bumbling wreck. We could almost be strangers." He shrugged. "And I help people in trouble. It's what I do. Really, that's all there is to it. I'm helping you because it's what I do. Harry would do the same thing, and you and him have even more history than you and I do."

"This isn't about what Potter would do. It's about what you're doing." Draco was surprised to see Longbottom shake his head.

"I'm doing this because it's the right thing to do. And if nothing else, he taught me that doing the right thing is valuable, especially when it's difficult."

Oh, yes. Clearly, there was something here. Draco didn't push at it any further, however. Now was not the time, not when his brain was moving like a marble through cold treacle. "You're putting yourself in harm's way. You should just drop me off at my flat, and I won't be your problem anymore."

"I'm not driving all the way to Bath. I'm tired." The sidelong look Longbottom shot him was an irritating mix of incredulity and smugness. "Besides, do you really think the Brotherhood's not watching your flat? When they want someone dead, they're usually good at making them dead. There's not often a well-meaning 'bloody fucking Gryffindor' around to sod things over like I did."

Draco looked sidelong at Longbottom. "I never told you my flat was in Bath."

Once again, Longbottom's look was annoyingly self-assured, one eyebrow curved in a confident arch. Draco had never noticed before today how ridiculously expressive his eyebrows were. "You're a Person of Interest for another seven months. You don't sneeze without us knowing."

"If that's the case, then you already know everything about my lacklustre position with the Brotherhood," Draco said challengingly.

Longbottom shook his head. "The Brotherhood's a blind spot. We knew you were involved with them, but anything beyond that..." He shrugged, then glanced to the side. "How's the wife?"

"No idea," Draco said laconically - Longbottom wasn't going to blindside him that easily. "I haven't seen her for weeks, as per usual."

"Should you maybe let her know you've got an organised crime ring on your trail? Seems like something a spouse ought to know about, in case they show up at her door."

The laugh that escaped Draco surprised even him. "If you were going to be searching for me, would you really look for me in my wife's company? Seriously?"

After considering that for a moment, Longbottom nodded slowly, "You've got a point. And I assume they know more about you than we do."

Draco could not suppress a small shudder. "They know more about me than _I_ do. Take my advice, Longbottom: don't get mixed up with them."

"Well, there goes my weekend," Longbottom said dryly. He'd pulled up to the pavement and turned off the car. "We're here."

Suddenly apprehensive, Draco looked out the window at the building. "You know that they're going to figure out I'm here. They probably already know."

"The entire building's Unplottable, and it's full to bursting with Aurors and Hit-Wizards and Unspeakables. And I'd like to see them get past the doorman." Longbottom leaned over to open the car door and then paused, looking back at Draco. "Are you actually worried about me?"

"Of course not," Draco scoffed.

"Because you can't be fussed about what happens to me? Or because you've realised that I'm slightly more capable than the Neville Longbottom you remember?" One side of his mouth quirked in a grin, as though he already knew the answer and just wanted to hear Draco say it.

Well, Draco wasn't going to give him that satisfaction. At least not completely. "Yes," he said flippantly, pulling the handle to open the door and levering himself out of the car. He tried to hide the way he leaned against it for support. Bloody bollocks of hell, he was tired. His legs quivered, as though he needed a physical reminder of how long he'd been running on empty.

And then Longbottom was there, pulling one arm over his shoulder, taking Draco's weight against a body that felt very solid compared to the watery mush Draco felt his muscles must be made of now.

"There are three flights of stairs," Longbottom said with false cheer, "and no lift. Should we just give up and have me carry you now?"

Draco glared at him. "I let you carry me before because I was mostly dead. I'm not going to put up with that again."

"Oh, and you could do a whole lot if I decided to just pick you up right now." As though to prove his point, Longbottom shifted slightly and Draco felt his feet leave the ground.

"Fuck! Don't do that!" Clearly, the solidity he was leaning against was mostly muscle. Bloody hell, it was like someone had thrown a switch on the man from one extreme to the other. Whatever Auror training was like, it agreed with Longbottom immensely. When Draco felt the pavement beneath his feet again, he relaxed somewhat, still very aware of how tightly he was snugged up against the other man's side in order to continue standing upright.

"All right. Up this way. Act drunk."

"I am not going to act drunk," Draco hissed as they made their way up the pavement to the door on the ground floor of the building.

"Fine then, you come up with a reason why you're staggering about like you're pissed." He shouldered open the door at the front of the building. "Evening, Clay. It's just me and a friend."

Draco goggled at the massive doorman, hunkered on a stool. Only his eyes had moved as Longbottom had walked past, and they moved back to study the door as though nothing interesting had happened.

"Your doorman is a golem. Named Clay."

"It's what I call him," Longbottom said, shrugging.

"How droll." Draco rolled his eyes. They landed on the staircase, and his breath caught. Partly because it was beautiful wrought-iron, worked in fanciful scrolls he hadn't thought were possible with the medium. Partly because they were a tight spiral that would make it impossible for two people to walk up abreast. "You have got to be joking."

"Might be easier to be carried, you think?" Longbottom sounded entirely too smug.

"I'll sleep down here with Clay. He seems a nice fellow." Exhausted and aching or not, Draco was not going to tolerate being hauled around like a sack of potatoes again.

"Come off it. We can stand here and argue until I get my way, or we can just do it my way from the start and get you into bed where you belong that much sooner." There was an edge to Longbottom's voice that very plainly said he was running out of patience. Draco just then noticed the stubble on his cheeks and the blue shadows under his eyes. Had he not slept since the alleyway? How long had he been awake before that?

Draco ground his teeth together and let out a long-suffering sigh. "I want it known that I'm doing this under protest. This is _not_ acceptable behaviour."

"Oh, shut up." Longbottom bent down, pulled Draco's arm around, and hoisted Draco onto his back before beginning the twisting ascent up the stairs.


	3. Motives

"I'm going to pass out," Draco informed Longbottom as he was fishing about in his robes for the key to unlock the door.

"Shut up."

This was not the first time this exchange had happened in the past several minutes of agonisingly slow progress up the stairs. Draco was fairly certain that Longbottom didn't realise how much blood was rushing to his head, dangling halfway upside-down like this, or how Longbottom's shoulder was digging into Draco's stomach. He was glad he'd been unconscious the first time round.

Longbottom finally found the key and unlocked the door, kicking it open before him. When Draco twisted around to see where they were going, his jaw fell slack.

"How many goddamn stairs do you have in this place?"

"I'm sure you can survive for ten more seconds," Longbottom said in a brittle voice that spoke volumes as to how tired he was. "It's a loft bedroom."

"Don't be gallant, Longbottom. The sofa will do fine."

"I'm not being gallant," Longbottom refuted as he began to walk up the steps. "I come and go at odd hours. If you're on the sofa, I'll wake you up every time I come in to get what sleep I can. At least up in the loft, you'll be spared that."

"And I'll starve to death."

"Don't be so dramatic. You'll be able to handle a dozen stairs by tomorrow." Grunting, Longbottom bent over and deposited Draco onto the bed. As Longbottom straightened and turned to look down over the balcony at the room below, Draco scrambled into a more dignified position. "I don't keep much around, but there's enough for sandwiches and tea, at least."

"And how am I supposed to do anything without a wand?" Draco asked pointedly as he drew the duvet over his lap. Longbottom paused.

"You've got a point." He shrugged. "Cold sandwiches, then. I trust you know how to make those without magic. With a bit of ingenuity, I'm sure you can suss out a box of matches to light the stove, as well." He turned and there was a wry smile on his face. "So long as you don't burn the place down, I'll bring you some take-away." The smile slipped a little. "Later. I'm bloody tired."

"He's bloody tired, he says," Draco said under his breath to no one. Apparently, it wasn't quietly enough.

"Yes, actually," Longbottom said in a cold tone that almost made Draco want to cringe: it sounded so alien coming from him. "I haven't slept in three days, Malfoy. I've spent most of the last one keeping your sorry arse alive and making sure we wouldn't be followed when we came here. And you might notice that you weigh slightly more than a bag of groceries to be hauling up three flights of stairs." The edge seemed to fall from his voice and he ran a hand over his eyes, and once again, Draco noticed just how weary the other man looked. "I'll bring you up a sandwich. And then, I'd appreciate it if you'd let me get a few hours of sleep."

Draco's eyebrows flew up in surprise. "Why wouldn't I?"

Looking taken aback, Longbottom paused. "I..." he shrugged. "Just seems like something you'd do, keep me awake. Make me your servant. You'd have loved that at school, making me your lackey."

Now that they were out of that blasted car, Draco's eyes were heavy and his body seemed to be demanding sleep. "You said it yourself. We're not thirteen anymore. And, well, to be frank..." He looked Longbottom up and down. "I imagine that if I tried anything like I did in school, you'd just throw me out a window now." A self-deprecating grin sneaked onto his lips. "I don't think I'd be able to stop you if you did, even if I wasn't a complete invalid."

"You're not wrong," Longbottom answered dryly. He passed a weary hand over his eyes briefly. "A sandwich. And then sleep. I won't toss you out of any windows today, I promise."

Fighting to keep his eyes open was a losing battle. As he heard Longbottom moving about the kitchen downstairs, the last thing Draco could remember thinking was that at least Longbottom had impeccable taste in bedding.

* * *

The notion of time, of days and hours and mornings or evenings, lost all meaning. Either Draco was asleep or he was drowsily awake, waiting for sleep to return.

Occasionally, Longbottom was there. Once, he hauled Draco to a sitting position and handed him a piece of bread, and he would snap his fingers in Draco's face to keep him awake until he ate it. Another time, it was a cup of steaming broth. Draco could only vaguely nod to Longbottom's pointed questions, blinking through the haze his mind was steeped in like cloudy tea.

"Your magic should have healed you by now," Longbottom fretted one evening. He was flipping through a book, biting his lip, as Draco cupped his hands around a mug of something hot. He'd not tasted it yet. Then, suddenly, Longbottom looked up. "Are you anaemic? Or is anyone in your family?"

Draco considered the question numbly. "My mother," he said distantly. "And Potter made me."

Longbottom's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean, 'Potter made you?'"

"Cursed me." He absently fingered the scars on his chest. It was such a challenge to even think, and his tongue didn't want to work properly. "Didn't know what he was doing. Snape said my blood would never be the same."

"Fuck," Longbottom muttered, flipping to the index of the book in his lap. "I may have overtaxed your marrow with the replenishing potions, then... I know nothing about curse anaemia."

This didn't seem to require a response, and Draco felt his eyelids droop. A split second later, Longbottom snapped in his face again.

"Drink that. All of it. You're not getting enough food; that's the lion's share of the problem right there."

Obediently, Draco lifted the mug to his lips. Whatever it was tasted vile, but it would be more effort to resist Longbottom forcing it down his throat, and more humiliating.

The sound of Longbottom's muttering was underscored by the dry scratches of rapidly flipping pages. "I shouldn't have moved you so soon and drained of every reserve you had between that and the bone mending, especially if the blood replenishing was too much for your body to handle..." Draco considered asking him to shut up for just one moment, but it didn't seem like it was worth it. "You need food, apparently; that's what every text I've read says, but you can't stay awake long enough to eat anything substantial, and I don't know the nutrition charms they use at the hospital."

Draco forced down the last gulp of whatever evil concoction had been in the mug and slid down beneath the sheets, and before it could roll from his fingers, Longbottom glanced over and took the mug from him. With a sigh, Longbottom rose from his seat at the edge of the bed and waved a hand, extinguishing the lights in the room.

"That's a cool trick," Draco tried to say, but halfway to his mouth, the words lost their way, and he simply let his eyes close.

From that point forward, it felt as though Draco got no rest at all. He would just drift off when Longbottom would shake his shoulder or pull open an eyelid or even go so far as to yank the covers back and leave Draco shivering in the sudden cold. Aside from the various pleasantries they would exchange - "Sod off" and "Good morning to you too" being the most common - they had no conversation. Longbottom would shove a mug of something even more horrid than the last into Draco's hands and glare at him imperiously until he'd drained the whole thing, and then, Longbottom would take the mug and let Draco nestle among the bedclothes again until he was almost asleep, and the whole thing would repeat.

He had lost count of how many times he had been rudely interrupted when Draco realised his bones didn't feel so terribly heavy anymore when he sat up, and his skull didn't seem stuffed with cotton. He blinked hard a few times and then shot Longbottom a suspicious sidelong glance as he pushed himself to a sitting position against the headboard of the bed.

"Have you been drugging me?"

"And my nefarious scheme has been revealed," Longbottom lamented in overly dramatic tones. "I've spent this whole time wickedly trying to give you the strength to sit up of your own volition. Yes, I've been drugging you. Now that you're awake and coherent, can you please eat a goddamn bowl of soup?"

Draco raised an eyebrow. "You almost sound concerned, underneath all that exasperation."

"I'd have to buy new sheets if you died on these, and probably a new mattress as well." A tray hovered over Draco's lap, bearing the aforementioned soup and a cheese sandwich, and Longbottom gestured to it with his wand. "Now eat, or I swear I'm going to shove it down your throat."

Until he'd brought the first spoonful of soup to his lips, Draco hadn't understood how hungry he actually was. As he tasted it, his stomach suddenly felt as though it were a yawning chasm, and if it hadn't been for a lifetime of decorum ingrained in his pores, he'd have begun slurping out of the bowl like some animal. As it was, he ate with almost unseemly haste, spoon clinking against the bowl in a way that would have made his mother frown. The sandwich barely made for five bites, and then he was staring at the empty dishes in astonishment.

Even Longbottom looked impressed. "Right," he said, breaking the silence. "D'you want more? I can arrange for a roast ox if you're still peckish."

"You're not nearly as funny as you think you are," Draco shot back. "And it's unbecoming to taunt sick people."

An undignified snort accompanied Longbottom's arched eyebrow. "Is that a yes?"

Draco did not dignify that with an answer, but when Longbottom brought up the second bowl of soup, he set to without a moment's hesitation. Merlin's buggered arse, he was _hungry_.

It wasn't until he was fighting against his desire to lick the bowl that he realised the light in the bedroom was the bluish white of daylight, not the yellow of lamps. "Why aren't you at work?" Draco demanded.

"Because I'll be damned if I brought you back from death's door just to watch you waste away," Longbottom replied. "The Ministry can work out how to tie its shoes without me for a few days. It's not as though I'm doing anything useful with Harry gone." A packet of ginger biscuits was the next thing to come wafting up from the kitchen in response to Neville's lazy summons, and Draco tore into it greedily. "Oh, by the way, I took the liberty of telling your wife you were safe."

"I'd wager her relief was palpable," Draco said with a short nod. "It's always distressing when your allowance gets cut off." Although Longbottom glared, Draco glared right back. "Don't give me that. I'm fond of her, and we get on, but only if I stay away as much as possible and keep her in comfort. No amount of dirty looks is going to turn our marriage into blissful matrimony on principle, so how about you give it a rest?"

"Actually, she seemed genuinely distraught when I told her what had happened, and not about the money, which was obviously your first thought. But go on, keep assuming that I think the worst of you. It'll make me not feel so bad when I have to dose you again." Without another word, Longbottom stood and started down the stairs, his heavier-than-necessary footfalls betraying his irritation.

For the first time in he didn't know how long, Draco did not feel like immediately falling back to sleep, and his sluggish mental processes were picking up speed. It was, possibly, a bad idea to irritate the person keeping him alive, especially when he didn't entirely understand the motives behind it. He could almost feel the energy from the food suffusing his aching body, and after taking a deep breath, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and shakily stood, intending to hobble downstairs and mutter something resembling an apology.

Immediately, it was clear that this was a terrible idea, and his knees buckled. He landed heavily back on the bed. Downstairs in the kitchen, he could hear Longbottom running a tap - doing the washing-up, probably. It struck him as slightly odd that someone with enough magical clout to extinguish lamps wandlessly would clean dishes by hand, but then it struck him as odd that anyone would elect to think about cleaning dishes at all.

He heard a clatter of a bowl being jammed perhaps more forcefully than was required into a cupboard. Ah. Clearly, Longbottom was venting his frustration at Draco's antagonising presence. Well, that was hardly his fault - for the most part, Draco simply had to exist somewhere and the surrounding people would become antagonised. It was hardly a new experience.

However, he could work on being slightly less abrasive. Part of him pointed out that it had been Longbottom who had his hackles up to begin with. The larger part of him that had actually matured past the age of seven shushed the first part.

It was with mild surprise that he saw Longbottom coming up the stairs again, holding a mug of the pond scum Draco had come to know so well. He must have made a face, because Longbottom grinned broadly as he handed over the mug.

"I made it extra strong this time," he said with relish.

" _You've_ been brewing this? And I'm not dead yet?" Draco looked with distaste at the contents while simultaneously wishing he could smack himself upside the head.

"If it would help restore your faith in the world, I can horribly spoil the next batch. Just for you." Longbottom shrugged. "But I'm not the one who has to drink it."

"And what is it, exactly?" Draco asked, peering at the thick vapour that rose from it.

Instead of responding, Longbottom plucked a book from the table he was standing by and tossed it onto the bed. "Page ninety-seven. Incidentally, you'll no longer be light-headed when you stand up too quickly, and your hands shouldn't be cold all the time anymore."

Draco flipped to the proper page. It was a dense medical text detailing treatment for a whole slew of blood-related disorders, some magical, some mundane. He couldn't wrap his mind around half of it and he looked up from the book. Longbottom was watching him, and he did not have the smug look on his face that Draco would certainly have been wearing had their roles been reversed. In fact, he almost looked embarrassed.

"You're just doing me all sorts of favours," Draco said finally.

"That certainly seems to be the case," Longbottom agreed amiably. "Are you going to drink that?" He indicated the mug that Draco still held.

"Why?"

"Because it tastes more and more like rancid pumpkin juice the longer it cools."

"No, I mean why do all this?" Draco gestured at himself, the book, the mug.

Longbottom lowered himself onto a clothing trunk and looked at Draco seriously. "I haven't been exaggerating, Malfoy. You'd have died days ago if I hadn't got to the bottom of why you weren't getting better. Now, you're on the mend."

"Yes, yes, I understand all that. Why?" When Draco took a sip of the potion, he shuddered; Longbottom _had_ made it more potent than usual.

"Why am I trying to keep the man I'm hiding in my flat from dying? The paperwork, for one," Longbottom began, but Draco held up a hand.

"Spare me the clever repartee. Just tell me why."

For a moment, Longbottom stared at him appraisingly. "Because what I said before in the car is still true: this sort of thing is just what I do. Because I started something when I picked you up from that alley, and I intend to see it through." His lips twisted into a tiny half-grin. "And because a world without Draco Malfoy would be decidedly less interesting."

Draco took another long gulp of the potion to buy time to think of what to say to that. He immediately regretted it and grit his teeth to force himself to swallow.

"My advice to you is to not worry so much about why I want to get you well, and just get well," Longbottom continued as Draco blinked tears from his eyes - the potion was hideously strong. "Then we'll both be out of one another's hair."

Draco grimaced and raised the mug to his lips again, but then Longbottom gave an exasperated sigh and snatched the mug from his grip. "Oh, stop that. I've had my petty revenge. Let me go brew you a less evil one."

* * *

Some days later, Draco could stand unassisted long enough to take a shower. Before he left for work, Longbottom encouraged him vociferously to do so, because during his phase of unconsciousness, Draco had exhausted the supply of sponge baths Longbottom was willing to give.

Maybe it was the deadpan delivery, or just his infuriating habit of selflessness, but Draco wasn't entirely certain Longbottom had been joking about that. He decided to believe it much more likely that Longbottom had simply used various cleansing charms.

The pressure from the showerhead was abysmal, but the hot water felt positively delicious. Draco simply stood for a time and let it wash over him as he let his mind wander.

He wasn't sure how it had happened, but over the past several days, he and Longbottom had become... warily comfortable. Bedridden as he was, Draco was a captive participant in whatever conversation Longbottom wanted to drum up, and somehow, Longbottom always knew when Draco was feigning sleep. Despite his best efforts to the contrary, Draco found himself enjoying it. Their verbal fencing continued to be sharp, but with intent to outmanoeuvre rather than wound - and Longbottom had proved himself more than capable of backing Draco into a proverbial corner more than once.

If he was honest with himself, Draco could admit that he was starting to feel a grudging respect for his old schoolmate that had nothing to do with the nursemaiding. They were not friends - that word was too fragile for the uncertain weight of what currently passed between them. Besides, Draco Malfoy did not have friends. One of the first lessons his father had ever taught him was that a Malfoy could not afford to have friends.

Oh, he had acquaintances. It had been comforting to have Crabbe and Goyle at his back, confident in their loyalty and ability if not their brainpower. Blaise had been intelligent enough for conversation or a game of chess, if one could ignore his naivety about political climate. When the situation arose, Theo had been a competent if unexciting shag. And he'd had confidants: he could talk to Pansy about anything. Of course, Pansy could talk about anything as well, to any _one_ , so he seldom made use of her in that capacity; the second thing his father had ever taught him was that a Malfoy could not afford to let slip their secrets.

Had he opted to render down everyone who had stood by him in some capacity, what would be left in the crucible would be something approaching a friend, but a Malfoy didn't work that way. The way things stood, everything was precisely balanced. He was not close enough to any one person for them to be a liability or a threat no matter what they did; similarly, his distance gave them plausible deniability when his involvement with the Death Eaters had made him an unsavoury social contact.

It wasn't until after the war that it dawned on him: he was still separate and apart from all his peers in that he had not lost anyone he didn't know how to live without. He'd understood intellectually, but that was when the seeds of prudence had come to fruition.

It was a lonely way to live, but when one's family held such great social and political clout, it was the only secure way to go about it. His father's careful web that he had spent years weaving was the only thing that had kept the Malfoy name from becoming a bruised and tattered embarrassment, and Draco was expected to uphold that standard.

So of course Longbottom wasn't a friend. If he was a friend, Draco would be honour-bound to never see him again, and he didn't want that.

The water went suddenly tepid, a warning against the cold that was going to come, and Draco grabbed for a flannel and scrubbed hastily, marvelling at how glorious it felt to be clean.

It felt so glorious, in fact, that it was with mild dismay that Draco lifted his wilted and sadly wrinkled silk shirt after he'd dried himself. It wasn't dirty by any means, but it was a far cry from freshly laundered, and at that moment, he could think of few things he would want against his skin less. The undershirt was in even less appealing condition, and the only thing that had saved his trousers from being in the same state was how they had been draped over the back of a chair since his first evening here. Draco pulled on his boxer shorts and ambled carefully over to the chair to pull on the trousers, and then he paused, one leg still in midair.

He'd never actually noticed the chest of drawers before; he had simply registered it as a piece of furniture that was present. But there were clothes in there. Clean clothes. Certainly, Longbottom wouldn't mind lending Draco clean clothes. A shirt, at least. Just a clean t-shirt would be the difference between night and day, even if it was several sizes too large for him.

And they all were, Draco discovered when he yanked a drawer open. Except for the Gryffindor Quidditch t-shirt (and Draco had at least enough self-respect to not stoop that low), he would be swimming in every shirt Longbottom owned. He settled upon a dark blue one that proclaimed "2ND JNR AUROR LONGBOTTOM" across the left breast, which he presumed to be an exercise shirt from Longbottom's training days. It was merely loose on him, rather than having enough extra material to make half another shirt. Not for the first time, he wondered where Longbottom had found all that extra shoulder.

Now fully clothed, Draco made the long and weary trek down the stairs to the kitchen, where he cobbled together a ham sandwich and struck the first match he'd ever used in his life to light the stove. Tea and food accomplished, he pushed aside Longbottom's duvet and pillow on the sofa and sank onto it gratefully. Having completed his morning routine in slightly under an hour and a half, he determined that morning time well spent and deserving of a nap. The thought of negotiating the stairs again dizzied him, however, and that was why the afternoon found him curled up on the sofa in a half-doze when the lock on the door clicked.

Draco was immediately awake and sat bolt upright, eyes scanning his surroundings for his wand before he remembered he'd lost it. He had little time to prepare a backup plan, so it was with great relief that he realised it was Longbottom coming in the door and not some nameless thug ready to finish what he'd started. He relaxed against the back of the sofa, laughing weakly at himself.

But Longbottom did the exact opposite of relax: his shoulders tensed, his frame becoming instantly taut and drawn. His eyes seemed to be focused on Draco's chest.

Inwardly, Draco smirked. "Something wrong?" he asked in his best infuriating drawl.

Longbottom licked his lips. "That's my shirt," he said pointlessly.

"Is it?" Draco looked down at his chest, making a show of inspecting himself.

"It's got my name on it, hasn't it?"

"I suppose it does." He looked back up, and the words he was about to say died on his tongue.

Longbottom didn't look angry. He didn't even look annoyed. His eyes were slightly unfocused, his lips slightly parted, his jaw slack. If Draco had to put a name to the carefully blank expression, he'd almost call it... hungry.

No. Not hungry. _Needy._

With that realisation, the energy in the room changed completely. Draco was suddenly very aware of the feeling of the fabric against his skin, the fabric of a shirt that wasn't his. It belonged to another man; in fact, it had another man's name proclaiming the true ownership. Pinned under that gaze, Draco felt as though he'd... submitted, somehow, that he was being looked upon as someone who _should_ be wearing that shirt, _belonged_ in that shirt. Longbottom licked his lips again and Draco felt his breath catch in his throat, his heart hammering against his ribs.

Suddenly Longbottom gave his head a little shake, and the tension dissipated like a pricked soap bubble. "I'll pick up some of your clothes from your flat tomorrow," he said dismissively. "I should have thought of that before." His eyes narrowed. "I certainly hope you left my underwear drawer alone."

"God, yes," Draco responded, slightly shaken by the rapid change in atmosphere. He was not sure what had just passed between the two of them, but if Longbottom was prepared to ignore it, Draco was an old hand at pretending nothing was amiss.

"Good." Shaking his head again, he reached into his sleeve and strode over to the sofa. His eyes flicked to Draco's chest and then landed on his face. "Here."

Draco's jaw dropped, and the events of the last few minutes fled from his mind as he reached out a hand to take the wand that Longbottom was holding towards him. _His_ wand. Longbottom had recovered his wand.

He looked up, and any clever quips he could have possibly come up with had dissipated. "How...?"

"If anyone asks, you got it back on your own," Longbottom said by way of explanation. "Officially, Aurors aren't supposed to get caught up in the Brotherhood mess."

"How did you get it?" Draco finally managed, dropping his eyes back down to his wand. He was not a drippy romantic; he refused to believe that the wood had grown warm at his touch, or that his arm felt more complete with his wand firmly gripped in his fingers. Refusing to believe and not believing, however, were two completely different things.

"I'd prefer to stay enigmatic for a while longer," Longbottom said with an impish smile. "Let's just say it was no trouble." His gaze lingered on the shirt for another moment, and then he cleared his throat. "I'm going to take a shower and change. Then I'll grab us some take-away."

Draco nodded, rendered more or less speechless. There was a notch in the wood near the tip of the wand that hadn't been there before, but it was _his_ wand.

"Thank you," he said finally. He licked his lips and then added, haltingly, "Neville."

The other man paused halfway up the stairs. Draco couldn't see his face.

"Any time, Draco," Neville replied, and then he continued upstairs.


	4. Snap

There was nothing for it. They liked each other.

They were not friends. So far as Draco was concerned, they were nothing more than temporary allies, and once they'd stopped huddling behind the protection their surnames offered, they got on well. Once it was safe for Draco to leave, he'd be doing so and not turning back. There was absolutely no room in his life for a social contact like Neville. They were not friends, would never be friends, and would have no contact once Draco brushed off the pieces of his life and put them back in proper order.

He'd probably owe Neville a favour. He supposed he could deal with that reality once it came along.

The strange thing was, having determined the proper course of action to nullify any future difficulties, it was remarkably easy to forget that course of action. It was especially easy when Neville popped the cap off a beer bottle and handed it to Draco one evening after supper, settling down on the sofa next to him with a bottle of his own.

It was easy to forget that Draco did not like beer, too.

"I'm having very little luck trying to work out your situation," Neville admitted after a few moments of silence, during which Draco had tried to remember why he didn't like beer.

Draco stared blankly. "My situation?"

"With the Brotherhood?" Neville looked pained. "The reason you're currently taking up space in my flat? Or did you manage to forget that already?"

Grimacing, Draco took another sip of his beer. He had forgotten, actually. It wasn't really something he had ever spent a great deal of time thinking about, at least until he'd been cornered in Knockturn Alley. "I thought Aurors weren't supposed to get mixed up with the Brotherhood."

"We're not. I'm not doing it as an Auror; I'm doing it as a private citizen - a private citizen with some usefulconnections." Taking a long draft from his bottle, Neville then looked expectantly at Draco.

The label of the bottle in Draco's hands was fascinating, and studying it gave him an excuse to not answer right away. "You're doing this for me?" he asked finally.

"No," Neville corrected. "I'm doing this _because_ of you. I'd like my bed back, and I can't send you back to your own place until I'm convinced no one is going to come smash your head in." He paused for a moment. "I suppose that last bit is for you."

"How considerate." Draco studied the illustration of the dragon on the label for a few moments before he drew a deep breath. "You of course know the name Bryce Lancaster."

"Everybody knows the name Lancaster." The way Neville's brow furrowed did not look promising. "Don't tell me your troubles go that far up, because even I can't help you if _he's_ got it in for you."

"Well then, you'd best get a set of bunk beds, because I won't be leaving for a while." Ignoring the horrified look on Neville's face, Draco took a swig of the beer. "In my defence, I had no idea that it was his heir at the bar that night. Nor did I have any idea that his father would place full blame on me for 'turning his son gay'."

Closing his eyes, Neville sighed heavily through his nose. "So let me get this straight. You screwed Harrison Lancaster, son of the most homophobic and cruel organised crime ringleader we've seen in this country in twenty years. And you were indiscreet enough to get caught."

There was really no way for Draco to sugar-coat it. "More or less."

Neville shook his head. "What have I got myself into?"

"A right mess," Draco offered. "If it makes you feel any better, I don't think he actually wants me dead. There are much more efficient ways to do that."

"Yes, but they're also much more detectable," Neville said. He'd put his beer down and was rubbing his temples. "Are there any other details I should know about? Did you deflower the entire family, or just the eldest?"

"Deflower? Please." Draco took another drink of the bitter ale. "He had experience. Plenty of it. I was just unlucky enough to be the first one observed with him. And it was just him - he's only got a sister, and she's not really my type."

"Well, there's that, at least." Sighing, Neville picked up his beer. "I might have an avenue I can pursue. It'll take some time."

Draco shrugged. "I've got a wand again, so I won't set the place on fire with matches anymore. Take your time."

"Thanks," Neville said dryly. "Feel free to invite yourself to stay as long as you'd like."

They lapsed into silence. Draco went back to studying the label of the beer again when something occurred to him.

"Why do you even have matches?" he asked suddenly.

"Hm?" Neville asked, lifting his head from the reverie he'd slipped into.

"Matches. They're a thoroughly useless Muggle nuisance. Why do you have them?"

"Ah." Neville stared at him for a moment, as though trying to decide how much to divulge. "I didn't come into my magic until I was eight," he said finally.

" _Eight_?" Draco felt his eyebrows shoot straight up. He'd been two. He may not have been able to do anything useful until he had a wand, but he literally could not remember a time when he didn't have magic.

"Nearly nine. The rest of the family kept trying to scare it out of me. My gran, though, she's practical. She started teaching me how to live like a Squib." Neville shrugged. "She kept it up until I was accepted at Hogwarts, and even a bit after. Just in case. So I've always kept matches around, and -"

Draco had stopped listening partway through Neville's explanation, his mind abruptly thrown into complete disarray as something occurred to him.

Magic took about fifteen years to fully mature in an individual. By eleven, most wizards had enough to start channelling it usefully. By seventeen, they'd probably achieved their adult levels of magic much as they'd reached their adult height. If Neville had had enough magic to be accepted at Hogwarts after just three years of development and had managed to keep up - however incompetently - with the rest of the students his age throughout school... and yet followed the same fifteen-year pattern...

"I know what you're thinking. Go ahead and say it." Neville sounded more than a little resigned.

"You must be a goddamned powerhouse." If that was blunter than Draco had ever spoken in his life, he could blame it on the way everything he'd ever assumed about the man sitting next to him had suddenly been turned on its head.

Something like anger seemed to flash in Neville's eyes, but Draco blinked and it was gone. "Most magic is more finesse than force," Neville said offhandedly. "But if you ever need a house levelled, let me know." He took a long drink from his nearly-empty bottle. He was openly avoiding eye contact with Draco now. Despite the fact that the subject was obviously making Neville uncomfortable, Draco's astonishment overcame his instinct for social grace and tact.

"But you must be... do you have any idea the sorts of things you could _do_ with that much power?" he blurted.

Neville looked at him with an expression Draco had never seen on his face before, a shift of the jaw and a furrowing of the brows that could have been disgust. "Oh? You mean like accidentally kill someone with a Stunning spell? Set a house afire trying to light a lamp? How about breaking ribs with an Impediment Jinx?" His mouth twisted as though he'd tasted something sour. "Do you realise how _careful_ I have to be? _All_ the time? Did you never notice that I rarely ever use a wand?"

"I thought you were just showing off," Draco replied hesitantly.

Vehemently, Neville shook his head. "Do you know what Snapping is?"

The abrupt change of subject made Draco blink before he shook his head.

"It's using trauma to try and get someone to reach a heightened level of magic." Neville's tone was short, as though discussing something unpleasant. "Like I said before, scare it out of them. Used to be the go-to method for kids like me."

Unsure of whether he was supposed to say something, Draco decided it would be safer to keep his mouth shut.

"It's illegal, of course. Snapping someone on purpose, that is." The bottle in his hands was empty, and Neville stared at it intently as though to save himself from having to look up. Draco got the feeling that Neville wasn't actually looking at the bottle at all. "Used to be that Snapping would kill a couple of Squibs a year - either they were desperate to have magic, or their parents were desperate to not have a Squib as an heir." He cleared his throat. "My family's old, you see - Snapping was just something they _did_ in our family history. Probably yours, too."

The silence stretched to something nearly unbearable until Draco coughed. "And it worked, I assume. When you were eight."

"Yeah. It worked. Nearly cracked my head open, but it worked. And it made me much more susceptible to Snapping later, too." There was no mistaking it; Neville's eyes were very far away, despite how fixedly he stared at his hands. The silence threatened to return again before Neville took a deep breath. "Did you read about the arrest and sentencing of Unspeakable Ross a few years back?"

If Neville was going to keep changing the subject like this, Draco would need a map. "Life sentence, wasn't it? All over the news. No idea what he was sentenced for."

"Me." At the word, Neville's eyes went oddly flat and dark. "And he never served the sentence, because he was dead when it was passed. There was no trial; you can't try a corpse. It was all a sham."

No matter how he looked at them, the random bits and pieces of information weren't meshing. Draco took a breath before deciding that blunt was the way to proceed. "I'm sorry, but how does this all fit together?"

Neville glanced up at him and Draco felt like swallowing when he saw how Neville's eyes flashed with… what was it? Impatience? Irritation? "Unspeakable Ross was one of the Unspeakables responsible for the anti-torture training for Aurors. Everyone had to do it. Except Ross was in charge of a small but fervent faction that wanted to try and force their pupils to Snap - add some vigour to the Auror force. And they started - and finished - with me."

"And you were already prone to Snapping." Like tumblers in a lock, everything else started to fall into place, and the beer in Draco's stomach churned sourly. "Oh God. What did they -?"

"Oh, you know. Burned me alive, didn't let me sleep, that sort of thing." The words were so bitter and glibly casual that they nearly seemed to twist the air around them. "They were successful, but they didn't take into account exactly what a Snapped adult who has been driven to the edge of sanity is capable of."

"You killed him. Ross." Draco did not need the silent nod to know it was true. "And when you… when you Snapped. You didn't have your wand?" A shake of the head. "And so…"

"The whole point of a wand is to focus magic." Neville's voice was perfectly flat. "If I focus mine anymore, bad things usually happen. There aren't many things that require that much brute force - except duelling." His voice took on a sour cast at that. "I'm great at taking people down. One of the only things I'm useful for. And one of the only things the Ministry bothered helping me master, once I recovered and decided to finish my Auror training."

Shaking his head, Draco carefully put his empty beer bottle on the table. "I'd have shown them my back so fast their heads would be spinning."

Neville shrugged. "Harry convinced me. Said what happened to me was exactly the sort of thing we were supposed to be fighting against. We didn't run out of battles when Voldemort died. There's still plenty to do. And if I have to be nothing but the Ministry's casualty machine… then so be it." This last was said so softly that Draco wasn't entirely certain he had been intended to hear it.

"At least you're useful for something." Draco regretted the words as soon as he said them. They sounded far harsher than he'd meant them, and one look at Neville's eyes made it perfectly clear how little the other man appreciated them.

"Oh, yes. It's fantastic. Everything I'd always dreamed and more. My parents would be so proud." Neville glared at the empty beer bottle, as though it were the bottle's fault it was empty. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

Draco opened his mouth and then shut it again. There didn't seem to be much more to say. Still, he had to try. "You use a wand for other things, though. You didn't snap your fingers to mend my ribs."

"I learned that after. Anything I learned after it all happened is fine. Anything before…" Neville shuddered. "Harry tells me it's a matter of practice - of getting my fine-tuning back. But I'd rather not destroy an entire city block trying to light the stove. So. Matches."

"Matches," Draco agreed faintly.

He was not sure how it had happened, but as though a mist had receded, Draco saw the man sitting on the sofa next to him with perfect clarity, in a manner Draco had never seen Neville in before. Draco did not see the boy from school with some gained height, broader shoulders, and a few days' worth of stubble. Nor did he see the weary Auror at the end of a long day.

Instead, he saw the once-teenaged war hero whom everyone had forgotten, who spent his days alongside the war hero whom everyone remembered. Draco saw a man who knew full well he was being used, formed into the most efficient of weapons because he was convenient, and who put up with it because at least, for now, he was being pointed in the right direction.

And Draco saw a man who was still every bit the gentle, sentimental lump he'd been in school, forced by situations beyond his control into a hard, protective shell. A shell that shielded Neville from the things he was forced to commit by his own hand in order to make it through the world that had forgotten him.

As though he needed the reminder, the inside of Draco's left forearm itched, and he licked his lips. He was familiar with the notion of settling into the niche the world had created, because there was no other place for him to go.

"I could help you," he said finally. "Start small. Candles and the like. Or - my family has a library. A sizable one. I'm sure there's something there -"

"The East End Eagles just signed a new Chaser," Neville said very firmly. "I hear he's taking the preseason matches by storm."

"He's an egotistical blighter who doesn't know the meaning of teamwork, and I wasn't done with the previous topic," Draco said, a bit taken aback.

"That's a shame, because I am." Abruptly, Neville stood from the sofa and held out a hand. "I'll take your bottle if you're finished."

Draco did not miss the double meaning of the statement, and thrust the empty bottle into Neville's hand roughly. He stood, and then hesitated.

"I can sleep on the sofa. If you want your bed back."

Neville looked Draco up and down as he considered the peace offering. "No," he said finally. "I'm fine with the way things are."

Draco shrugged. "If you say so." Neville made a noncommittal sound and turned to deposit the bottles in the bin in the kitchen. "And thanks," Draco added. The other man stopped and looked over one shoulder, eyebrows raised, and Draco cleared his throat. "You're going through a lot of trouble because of me. I imagine you can't have your mates round with me here, and you're feeding me and all... and the whole saving my life thing, which I haven't thanked you properly for yet... so thanks." He shifted awkwardly as Neville studied him.

"It's not a problem," Neville said after a moment, turning to continue into the kitchen. "My pleasure, really. And don't think you're crippling my social life, because with Harry gone, I haven't got one - except you lately, I suppose." Though Draco couldn't see Neville anymore, he could almost hear the grin in his voice warring with the sour afterglow of their conversation. "I suppose I should be thanking you for not being a git." Neville reappeared around the corner, holding two more bottles. He held one up invitingly. "It's still early."

They were not friends, it was not still all that early, and Draco did not like beer.

He took one of the bottles and sank back down onto the sofa anyway.


	5. Priorities

Draco should have known, when he heard the door slam, that something was wrong. He was in the middle of a chess game, however, and Neville's set was surprisingly clever, having managed to put him in check three times now. Draco was trying not to think about how he couldn't win against Neville even when Neville wasn't even there.

Even if he had missed the door slamming, his ears should have perked up at the clink of glassware that sounded remarkably like the _tink_ of a whisky bottle against a tumbler. It was a Monday, and Neville usually reserved the harder alcohol for the weekends.

It wasn't until Neville had been home and hadn't said a word for half an hour that Draco looked up suddenly, in the middle of a second chess game in which he was being soundly trounced.

"All right, Neville?" he called down the stairs.

There was no response. Draco hesitantly descended, eventually finding Neville at the kitchen table, studying the amber liquid in the tumbler before him as though it held all the answers to the universe. He did not look up as Draco stopped next to the table.

"Bad day?" Draco ventured.

Neville's face stayed carefully expressionless. "Harry's first day back."

Holding his breath, Draco slowly lowered himself into a chair, sighing quietly in relief when Neville didn't protest. "And that's bad?"

"Yes." Nothing else.

Draco sighed slowly again through his nose. He was slightly astounded he was going to say this, but Neville clearly needed to get what was eating him up inside out into the open air. "I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours."

Eyes questioning, Neville brought his face up just slightly. "What do you mean?"

Draco swallowed and stared at his hands folded on the table. "Unless I miss my guess, and I'm fairly sure I don't, you've had... relations... with Potter. So have I. And seeing as how he's now in blissful matrimony with the Weasley girl, it obviously didn't end well for either of us. So. Let's share war stories, shall we?"

There was a very long silence, filled only by the ticking of the clock across the room on the mantel and the occasional sound of a car passing outside. Finally, Neville tossed back the whisky in the glass, looked directly at Draco, and nodded.

"You first," he said.

Of course. Draco shrugged and took a deep breath. "It was my wedding day. Three, four days after Tori graduated Hogwarts. No need to waste time, we'd been betrothed since I was eleven. My mother invited Potter to be polite, and to be political. Having Potter at a Malfoy wedding would do a lot to improve our image here, possibly pave the way for them to come back one day... well. Beside the point, I guess.

"I don't know why he was staying at the manor. Maybe he'd had too much to drink and didn't feel up to Apparating. Whatever the reason, he was wandering in the gardens at around midnight, just like I was."

He could feel his mouth twisting sardonically. "As you might imagine, the wedding night hadn't gone well." Neville's lips twitched into the tiniest of smiles. "I stumbled across him. He was..." Draco trailed off. "I'm sure you know that look he gets when he's thinking." Neville nodded, a bit forlornly. "I got right up close to him before he noticed I was there. And then he just... smiled. Fucking beamed at me, like I was a best mate he'd not seen in months." Draco shook his head. "Threw me off a fair bit. It's hard to call someone a foul git when they're smiling like that at you."

"Oh. Yeah. That." Neville shook his head with a wistful grin. "He does that. When we're arguing. Right in the middle of a good row, he'll just grin like an idiot. That bloody smile's a weapon, I tell you."

"So you know exactly what I'm talking about." Draco leaned back in his chair, looking up at the ceiling. "He congratulated me. Acted like he was going to shake my hand, but pulled me into a hug - awkward, I'll tell you that. Smelled like a whisky shop, too." He shot a glance at Neville. "I'm not entirely positive our Mr Potter has a good grasp on impulse control."

"Believe me. Nine times of ten, my near death encounters have been because of him," Neville said wryly.

"Well. At any rate, I credit his poor impulse control, and the particularly fine Blackley Speyside we were serving, for his pulling my head down to snog me as though his life depended on it," Draco reminisced. "Surprised the hell out of me. Can't honestly say I minded, but if someone else had decided to take a moonlit stroll things might have got slightly embarrassing, so I suggested we take things inside, where there were walls and doors and locks."

"And beds?" Neville added shrewdly.

"Those too - but that wasn't what I was immediately thinking of at the moment. I don't like being exposed. Shut it," Draco said to Neville's juvenile smirk. "So we went inside. Into the drawing room, if you want to be precise. I'd love to say I had my way with him, but in the interest of being honest I'll admit - gladly - that it was the exact opposite." Draco wished he had a drink to take a swig of, to dramatically accentuate his pause. "I'm going to chalk that up to poor impulse control as well. On both our parts." He paused again; Neville looked like he was waiting for Draco to continue. "And unless you want an explicit recount of every twist and turn, that would be my story," he said pointedly. "I woke up and he was gone. I haven't seen him since. Which means that it's your turn now."

Neville's expression turned flat, and he studied the empty glass in his hand intently, turning it over and over, watching the reflection of the lamp warp across its curved surface. "Three times," he said after the lingering pause had stretched for nearly a minute. "The first the night after he killed Voldemort."

"I think I'm seeing a pattern. He got drunk off his tits that night, didn't he?" Draco asked.

"He did. And I sobered him up before I approached him about it."

Draco's jaw dropped. " _You_? Approached _him_?"

Neville raised an eyebrow. "You don't have to sound so surprised. I'd been carrying a torch for him for years - probably longer than you had been - and nearly died about three dozen times not a few hours before. You'd be amazed at what that does to bolster one's courage." He cleared his throat. "So that was the first time. Both of us sober, knowing full well what we were doing, and agreeing that it would never happen again."

"I'm sensing a 'but.'"

"But," Neville said obligingly, though his eyes were taking on a tight, drawn look. "It did happen again. Of course. A year later, at the party after the Holyhead Harpies won the Regionals." He rubbed his eyes, his voice muffled by his hands in front of his face. "Ginny had disappeared from the party. I found out later it was with one of the Beaters."

"Isn't the Harpies an all-ladies team?" Draco asked, knowing the answer. Neville nodded.

"Apparently, Ginny isn't picky," he said delicately. "It made Harry slightly... distraught, though I didn't know why he was out of sorts at the time, or why everyone was giving him such wide berth. So I went over to the corner where it seemed he was determined to find the bottom of every bottle in the room. And..." Neville swallowed. "He lives in a very creepy house," he said, trying in vain to speak in a light tone. "Before you ask, I drove him home before he pickled his own liver. This was not the first time I'd done this, and it wouldn't be the last, but it was the only one where I... borrowed some of Harry's poor impulse control." He lowered his face into his hands again. "I'm not particularly proud of myself for that night," he said heavily. "I apologised and left when... it was over. We didn't talk about it again."

Neville stayed quiet for a long while. Finally, Draco cleared his throat. "And the third time?"

It almost seemed as though Neville was ignoring him, or wasn't going to answer, but then, very quietly: "Five weeks ago. The night before his wedding."

"Shit," Draco said, slightly impressed.

"I was his best man. He was staying here that night. He and Ron and I opened a bottle of bourbon, celebrated heartily, and Ron passed out on the couch. I took Harry up to bed and was going to head downstairs to kip on a camp bed and he... asked for me." Neville's voice was thick, and Draco wondered if he was crying behind those hands. "Insistently. Said he didn't know if he could go through with the wedding, not when we had what we did between us. I tried to convince him there wasn't anything between us, but he... kept asking. Begging." Neville dropped his hands and looked pleadingly at Draco. "What would you have done, if he was right there in front of you, in your _bed_ , begging for you?"

"I know what _I'd_ have done," Draco said dismissively. "What did _you_ do?"

Neville let out a slow breath, his eyes losing focus as he stared into the middle distance, as though watching a memory play before his eyes. "I shagged him senseless," he said in a quiet monotone, "And then I made him forget any of it ever happened."

Draco was not aware he'd clapped a hand to his mouth until he found himself having to lower it to speak. "You modified his memory?" he asked, his voice almost a whisper.

Neville nodded miserably. "Not on purpose. Not entirely. I was looking at him, and thinking, 'It's Ginny he loves, Ginny he's supposed to be with'." He shook his head. "Not me. He was going to back out of the wedding! It would have killed her, and it would have killed him. And him remembering would have killed their marriage unless I completely stepped out of his life and I... couldn't do that."

"You don't think maybe that's a decision he had the right to make?" Draco asked incredulously. Neville's eyes grew flinty.

"Harry doesn't make decisions. He reacts. If he's ever thought something through to its end in his life, that's news to me. He's a good judge of character and I trust my life to his intuition every sodding day, but the man's decision-making skills are worse than his impulse control." Neville's voice was growing alarmingly heated as he stood to place the glass in his hands into the sink with slightly more force than necessary.

"I'm the half of us that makes the plans, figures out what we should do, how we should handle things," he continued vehemently. "He trusts me to make everything work out, to suss out all the details. It's what we've done for two years. This was a decision that I had to make or it wouldn't have been made at all." He licked his lips. "And... I thought I'd need a wand, to do something like that. I think that's why I... let myself go. Because I didn't think anything would actually happen."

"And did it occur to you that it might change things if it did work?" Draco asked, rising from his chair as well. "That it might change how he behaves toward you? That it might change that partnership you seem to value so highly you'll _rape_ your friend's goddamn _mind_ to keep it?"

"Shut up!" Neville bellowed, thumping his fist on the kitchen table. "I didn't even know what I'd done until it was too late!"

"That's convenient," Draco spat. "What an excellent way of shifting blame. I'll have to remember that, it could come in handy."

"I'm not shifting blame." The words sounded like a growl. "I'm making it into something I can live with. I know exactly what I did. If I had any decency I'd turn myself in. But seeing as how that results in me losing my job and my only friend hating me once it's all reversed, I thought I might try being a coward for a little while."

"Which explains your ridiculous gallantry that night in the alley." Draco sat back down heavily, glaring. "That couldn't have been more than three or four days after your bout of creative memory arrangement. What, did you think it would all wash out if you saved my life? That this was some kind of penance for what you'd done?"

"I did it because it was the right thing to do, not because I'm totting up my good and bad deeds and hoping it all comes out favourably," Neville replied forcefully. "And when I punish myself, I don't do it by playing nursemaid to old rivals that end up friends."

"We're not friends." Draco said it as flatly as he could manage. "And good thing, too, as being friends with you seems to come with hazards I'm not willing to accept."

Neville looked shocked. "Right then. You can get out of my flat."

Draco blinked, and instantly felt ashamed that his first thought was to protest that it wasn't safe and not that he'd apparently pushed Neville to the edge of his considerable tolerance.

"Brotherhood's done with you. I've seen to that. Saw to it a few days ago, actually, and I was trying to work out how to tell you." Neville's lips twisted and his next words dripped with acidic sincerity. "Go back to your political manipulation or high society seduction games or whatever it is you do when you're not being a right bother."

Draco set his jaw. "Right. Don't mind if I do."

His few belongings flew down the stairs in response to his wordless Summons and Draco caught them, shoving them under one arm as he stalked to the door. He paused with his hand on the knob.

"Go on then," Neville said from the kitchen behind him. "I'm done being useful to you. No reason for you to stay."

He was right. There wasn't any reason.

Draco yanked the door open and pulled it shut with a pettily satisfying slam behind him.

* * *

The first night he'd spent back in his flat was not worth remembering. Draco slept late, pretending it was because he'd missed his bed, not willing to admit that it was because he honestly couldn't think of what he'd do when he got out of it. After an appropriate amount of self-pity, he made himself presentable, and did the second-worst thing he could think of: Apparated to Malfoy Manor.

The house-elf's already-bulging eyes widened further when it answered the door. "Master Draco," it squeaked, bowing double. "Welcome home."

"Yes," Draco said vaguely as he tugged off his cloak. "Is Astoria about?" He hung the cloak on one of the hooks and looked expectantly at the house-elf.

"Mistress Astoria is out," it replied nervously. "Is Master wishing Bobbin to fetch...?"

So this one was Bobbin, then. Draco could never keep them straight. "No. Did she say when she would be back?"

Bobbin shook his head. "Mistress is not telling Bobbin, sir. Mistress is only asking for tea at noon in the library, sir."

Draco nodded curtly. Noon wasn't far off; he'd wait for her. "Bring me some tea, as well. I'll be waiting for her in the library. Let her know I'm there when she gets in."

"Right away, sir," Bobbin said, already rushing off to the kitchen.

The library, on the top floor of the manor to take full advantage of the illumination the windows offered, was exactly as Draco remembered it. There was already a tea tray set out, a Keeping charm distorting the air around it to keep the water warm. Draco resisting breaking the charm; Bobbin would appear with his tea in a few moments, and Tori always hated lukewarm tea. He instead perused the bookshelves, hoping a title would catch his eye so he would have something to do with his hands.

He'd pulled a book down from a shelf - one of his favourites, but signed by the author and thus never allowed to leave this room – when he heard the door click open quietly.

"Draco?"

Draco snapped the book shut as he looked up at the doorway. Astoria was doing a very good job of hiding her true emotions; instead of looking perturbed, as she always did when Draco appeared from nowhere, she looked almost pleased. "Tori," he said by way of greeting. He'd tried to make it sound warm, but by the way her eyes narrowed just the slightest degree perhaps it had not sounded very genuine.

Bobbin burst in from behind her with a second tea tray, trembling. "Mistress is home early, Bobbin was to tell Mistress that Master Draco was here -"

"It's all right, Bobbin. Twindle told me when I got in," Astoria said smoothly as she took the tea tray from him. "Would you be so good as to fetch us a light lunch?" Bobbin bowed so low his floppy ears nearly brushed the ground, then retreated from the library at an impressive speed.

"You're too soft on them," Draco said as Astoria put down the tea tray and settled onto a couch across from him.

"And you're too harsh," Astoria shot back. "Though at least a damn sight better than your father. My mother always taught me that a master should have the respect of his servants, not fear."

"Father was harsh," Draco admitted. The words felt like ashes, another tiny betrayal in a long list of similar crimes he'd committed against his family. "Though you should have seen how he treated our first one."

"You're not here to talk about house-elves," Astoria said in a clipped, businesslike tone. "I take it the... unpleasantness has been cleared up?"

Unbidden, the memory of Neville's voice played through his mind. _Brotherhood's done with you. I've seen to that._ "As much as it's going to be." He took another sip of tea.

"Good. I was actually going to write you when I got home; it's good that you're here." She set her teacup and saucer down on the table and brushed off her hands unnecessarily. "I've just come from the Healer. It would appear that your last visit stuck."

Draco stared blankly for a moment. Astoria arched an eyebrow at him in an expression not unlike the one he had been used to evoking from Neville, and that thought distracted him enough from the present conversation that Astoria sighed heavily. "I'm pregnant, and it's a boy. We have our heir."

The bottom seemed to drop out from Draco's stomach. "I thought you said you doubted it'd take."

"I was wrong," Astoria replied primly, picking up her cup and saucer again. "I'm nearly four months along and we're both ridiculously healthy."

"That's - that's marvellous," Draco stammered, eyes involuntarily flicking down to her abdomen. To be honest, he felt as though he'd been going very fast on a broomstick and it had braked suddenly, but he'd kept going.

Astoria smiled. Draco could tell it was supposed to be serene, but it had just a touch of smugness to it. "You don't seem all that excited."

"It's a lot to take in." Draco swallowed. "And you were just going to write me to tell me?"

Astoria shrugged. "I didn't know how long you were going to be where you were. I assumed you'd want to know as soon as it was certain."

"I suppose that's true." Draco shook his head to try and get it working again. He'd known, of course, that what they'd been doing had been for exactly one reason, but he'd never actually connected the act with its logical continuation. Or, rather, he had connected the two, but in a purely academic sense, a list of procedures to follow to an end result.

He was to be a father. Somehow, that concept had never factored in.

"I suppose I should move back to the Manor," he said slowly.

"Oh, that's up to you, I think," Astoria said blandly.

"That was always the plan," Draco said, more firmly. "Once we had our first child, I'd stop faffing about and assume my responsibilities."

"You've been very serious about your responsibilities, I should say," Astoria responded without a hint of sarcasm. Draco narrowed his eyes, trying to detect whether he was being mocked. Astoria met his eyes unblinkingly. "You've been out there, flailing about for the press, behaving exactly as the young heir to a sizable fortune is expected to. You've done a masterful job of distracting the public eye from the bruises on the family name until they could heal - by engaging in smaller but flashier scandals that are easily forgiven as a young man's debauchery."

"Is that what I've been doing?" Draco asked shrewdly.

Astoria raised a knowing eyebrow over her teacup. "That's what those who analyze every move in the dance of the pureblood houses think. Once word of my condition gets out, everyone will wait breathlessly to see how well you'll step up and take the world of polite society by storm, thus restoring the Malfoy name to its former pristine state." She chuckled. "There are some who are saying that your methods are remarkably transparent. I simply shrug and say I have no control over what my husband does."

"No, just over how everyone perceives what I do." Draco shook his head. He couldn't stop the grudging smile from spreading across his face. "Astoria, darling, I don't deserve you."

"Too right, you don't." There it was, the smug smile of self-assurance he knew so well. "Come home, or not. Either way, I can spin it as something that's necessary." There was a sudden, nearly imperceptible shadow to her eyes, a momentary downcast glance that made her look suddenly very vulnerable. "I will say that when I was growing up, I wished I still had a father around."

"There will be no doubt of that." Draco placed his cup in the saucer as Bobbin returned with a heavily-laden tray. "I'll be present." He met Astoria's eyes squarely. "I'll do right by you, and by our son. I promise you."

"Well, well," Astoria murmured. "Perhaps you'll surprise us all." She neatly ate a small wedge of cheese as Draco attempted to decipher that comment. "Speaking of surprises, I'm curious to know why you're here."

He stared for a moment. "I thought I'd let you know I wasn't in hiding anymore."

"You could have done so in a letter," Astoria pointed out. "In fact, I'd expected as much. You don't usually come round unless I've asked you to come or you need something."

"Is it so hard to believe that I just wanted to visit my wife?" Draco asked.

"Yes," Astoria replied bluntly. "It is. You've never wanted to 'just visit' me. I practically had to pull you here by the hair, kicking and screaming, to try and conceive. You're the most solitary person I've ever known, Draco. You don't 'just visit' anyone."

The strawberry he'd just eaten didn't seem as sweet anymore. He swallowed. "Maybe I've changed my mind. Maybe I've discovered how nice it is to have someone to talk to, about nothing at all."

Astoria pinned him with a calculating look that made him want to squirm. "You've had a falling-out with someone," she said after a moment. It was not a question. He could not decode the expression on her face; it looked to be something between shock and amusement. "And here I didn't think you had the emotional capacity to be lonely."

"I'm not certain whether that's an insult or a compliment," Draco said dryly. "I'm not lonely. And it wasn't an acquaintance I could afford to keep, anyway. Not if I'm to be the shining pillar of the Malfoy family."

"Ah," Astoria said, nodding. "Was he of... low quality?"

Draco snorted at her archaic term. "Of course not."

After a moment of study, Astoria put down her teacup. "You're not going to tell me who he is."

"No, I'm not," Draco replied, spreading preserves on a slice of bread. "I get the feeling he keeps his status close to his chest, and it's not my secret to tell."

"You're just full of surprises today." They ate silently for several minutes, and then Astoria brushed off her hands. "You ought to go back and rekindle the relationship."

Draco gaped. "I'll do no such thing." He glared when she raised an inquisitive eyebrow. "For starters, we didn't have a relationship. We didn't even have a friendship. There were no 'ships.' I don't even think there's a name for what little actually transpired. Secondly, I've already said it's a connection that won't do us any favours."

"Please," Astoria said, holding a hand up. "Unless he's an outright criminal or the worst sort of Mudblood -" Draco blinked at that; his wife did not often use rough language - "then I see no reason why his acquaintance should not bring additional esteem to this house."

"He has ties to the Ministry." He was giving away more than he should. "And Magical Law Enforcement." Far more than he should. If she couldn't puzzle it out from that then she was thicker than he'd ever believed.

Astoria shrugged. "So much the better. They have nothing on us. If you think I can't use those connections to our benefit, you grossly underestimate my abilities." He could almost see the thought processes ticking behind her eyes. "And it's Little, Bailey, Longbottom, or Cox. No, you don't have to tell me which one. Whichever one it is, you should go apologize to him."

"I'm not the one who owes the apology, and I've said three times now that it's over and done with." His tea was cold, and he didn't feel like rewarming it.

"Then swallow your pride and at least go tie up the loose ends, so they don't come unravelled later and dribble your past all over our future." Astoria laid a hand across her midriff in what looked to be an unconscious movement.

"The ends are well and truly tied," Draco said grimly. "Going back will only salt the wounds."

His wife shrugged and took an infuriatingly calm sip of her tea. "I'm sure you know best." She gave him another calculating look. "You probably have about a month before the news becomes well known. I suggest you spend that time sowing whatever wild oats you have left before coming back to settle down. If, of course, that's what you want to do."

Draco nodded and stood. It was always very odd to feel he had overstayed his welcome in the house in which he had grown up, but it was very clear that this was Astoria's home now, and that she was comfortable here. Too many corridors and doorways still made the hair on the back of his neck stand up for him to be truly at ease, which meant that the balance of power automatically went to Astoria. "I need to go rethink every aspect of my life now." He paused. "It was good to see you."

Astoria put her plate on a side table and rose as well to put her arms around Draco in a surprisingly warm embrace. "It was good to see you too. And talk with you." She held him at arm's length, studying him fondly. "I've missed this. You've been so cold and formal since our wedding."

"Well, that was when I stopped being your gay friend and was suddenly your husband," he pointed out.

Astoria shook her head as she stepped back and seated herself again. "You're still my friend, Draco. A very dear one. If you weren't, I wouldn't have married you, betrothal contract or no."

"Good to know. I'll let myself out." Draco left the library feeling both out of sorts and oddly comforted, the two emotions jangling alongside the knowledge that his wife was carrying his son and heir and he was going to be a father and -

He had been joking, but as he shrugged on his cloak, he realized that it had been completely true: he really did need to go rethink every single aspect of his life.


	6. Friendship

The next several days rushed by in odd dollops of time that refused to obey any clock that Draco was familiar with. He quailed at the thought of visiting Astoria and facing the certainty that everything was on the cusp of changing forever, and yet the indolence of lounging about his flat nearly drove him mad. This morning, no matter how many times he laid out on his sofa with a book, his attention began to wander. It wasn't until he'd read the same paragraph four times over that he tossed the book to the side, brought himself to his feet, and stretched. So far he'd discarded three books and a Daily Prophet, and it wasn't yet noon.

He was lonely.

Well, that was inconvenient.

He Apparated to the shop and filled a basket with a week's worth of food, paying as much attention as he possibly could to each item in a valiant attempt to ignore the melancholy. He knew it made little difference as to what kind of clover the bees frequented, but the label on the jar of honey engrossed him for well over five minutes. All told, the shopping occupied him for a good hour, but then he was right back in his empty flat with a week's worth of meticulously selected food.

He turned on the Wireless. The default station was playing some light baroque piece that immediately set his teeth on edge. He jabbed his wand in that general direction and the Wireless fell silent.

He didn't even have anything to clean. Astoria had sent a house-elf to take care of that while he'd been gone. He'd have felt better if there had been a thin layer of dust over everything. He'd have ignored it, but he'd have known that there was something he could fall back on.

There was a half-finished letter to his father at the writing desk. Draco settled into the chair, dipped the quill, and wrote a single sentence before he realised that this was below nonexistent dusting on the list of things he wanted to spend his time doing.

By half five that evening, Draco had showered twice, discarded two more books, napped, shaved, and picked out a bottle of wine.

The last shower and the bottle of wine had been in resignation to what he knew he truly wanted to do, and by a quarter of six, he'd Apparated to the pavement in front of Neville's building.

He got one step inside the lobby before his vision was filled with grey. It startled him probably more than he wanted to admit; he nearly dropped the bottle of wine and he only just avoided making an indelicate sound of surprise.

"Good evening," he managed to say, and if he didn't sound composed at least he didn't sound out of sorts. Not that it probably mattered to Clay. "I'm here to see Neville Longbottom, in 3C."

The golem held out one massive hand. Draco stared at it for a moment before timidly placing the bottle of wine in it. The golem's hand glowed blue, the bottle chimed oddly, and then the golem nodded. Draco took back the bottle of wine. Obviously he'd gotten a seal of approval, and he made to go up the staircase.

And then the golem was in his path. It wasn't a matter of moving quickly; one moment the golem had not been there and then it was. This time Draco did exclaim something profane, jumping back and nearly bowling into someone behind him.

"It won't let you past unless you have a key or an invitation," the wizard he'd nearly flattened said, apparently unperturbed. He strode past quickly and began climbing the stairs. The golem didn't pay him so much as a glance.

"Okay," Draco said, holding up his hands. "I'll... just stay here." He backed away slowly and sat on a chair that was presumably there for this purpose. The golem watched him, its eyes the only things moving in that impassive face, and once Draco made it apparent he wasn't going to attempt to get by again it ponderously made its way to its stool, where it seated itself facing Draco.

"So that's how it's going to be. All right then." Draco folded his hands in his lap and stared right back.

A clock ticked. Somewhere upstairs, a couple was having an argument about pans. Draco began to feel more than slightly foolish, but he didn't tear his eyes away.

"What the devil are you doing?"

Draco jumped, head whipping around to see Neville leaning against the banister of the stairs, a nonplussed expression on his face. Draco had not seen him come down.

"I'm, er... I was waiting for you."

"Obviously. Though when I got the message I had a visitor, I wasn't expecting you." Neville descended the last few steps and Draco rose from the chair, shooting a glance at Clay.

"I wasn't expecting to be here, either," he admitted after a pregnant pause.

"So why are you?" Neville challenged.

Draco scratched the back of his neck, unreasonably at a loss for words. "I... I missed your fat head."

Neville raised a single amused eyebrow. "You've had a week of nothing to do but sit around and come up with insults, and that's the best you can do for me?"

Draco shifted his feet. "I used up all the really clever ones on myself."

The amused eyebrow turned into a considering one. "That's the closest you're going to come to an apology, isn't it?" Neville asked in a somewhat defeated tone.

Draco tipped his chin up defiantly. "I didn't do anything to apologise for."

The flash of anger was undeniable. Over on his stool, Clay shifted. Neville held up a quelling hand and the golem stilled.

"No. You're right. You didn't, really." Neville shrugged suddenly and jerked his head in the direction of the stairs. "Come on then. You remember the way."

* * *

"Would you like a sippy cup for your grape juice?" Neville's voice sounded from the kitchen.

Christ, Neville knew how to get Draco's hackles up. "This 'grape juice' is older than you are," he retorted, stepping around the dividing wall. Neville was reaching to the top of a cabinet, bringing down two very dusty wineglasses. Draco decided not to point out that they were entirely the wrong kind of wineglass for this wine.

"I'll warn you, I've never met a wine I liked." The two glasses were wiped perfunctorily with a cloth and placed on the table in front of Draco. Neville gestured. "I'll let you do the honours."

"You've probably never met a wine you liked because you were drinking bad wine." Draco tapped the neck of the bottle with his wand, and the cork jumped out. He caught it deftly with one hand. "I get the distinct feeling that you cut your teeth on whiskey."

Neville bowed his head in agreement. "At some point, one of my ancestors owned a distillery. It's a part of the estate now." He chuckled. "Funny you say I cut my teeth on it - it's exactly what Gran would rub on my gums when I was teething, or so she told me."

"Yes, we pure-bloods seem to solve all of our problems with fine alcohol," Draco quipped as he waved his wand discreetly over the wineglasses. Not discreetly enough; he caught Neville's scowl. "Did you honestly think I would drink from a dirty glass? For shame."

"I cleaned it." The protest was half-hearted, and sounded more like an attempt to be contradictory than true irritation. Draco agreed with the sentiment; it seemed remarkably as though there was something in the air that made their words fall flat, something that had taken the edge out of their...

He might as well admit it to himself. Their friendship. Perhaps it was too strong a word, especially with the ineffable tension that wound about them in tiny threads, but there was really no other term for it. There was something in the air, in the room, in the light - something that forced an artificial distance between them that their well-worn banter could not diffuse.

Draco poured the wine. As he had said earlier, fine alcohol tended to solve most problems. If nothing else, it would make this one more bearable.

He watched with an amused eye as Neville swished the burgundy liquid around in his glass. Neville caught him watching and smiled sheepishly. "I know this is what you do with wine because I saw someone else doing it," he said. "I told you, I'm a wine idiot." The tiniest bit of colour crept into his cheeks as he looked down at his glass. "I'll probably do this all wrong and waste your good wine."

It did not seem like the best time to tell him that this wasn't even the good wine. "There's no wrong way to enjoy wine," Draco said instead, bringing the glass to his nose and inhaling deeply. "Just bad ways. And I knew you'd be too thick to appreciate it, anyway, so I brought an easy one." He smirked at the dubious look on the other man's face. "Oh, just drink it. The bottle's open now, so if you don't help me finish it then you've wasted it anyway."

Still dubious, Neville brought the glass to his lips and took a sip. "Oh." He took another, more enthusiastic sip. " _Oh_."

"What did I tell you?" Really, Draco reflected, you'd have to be dead to not enjoy this wine.

"I'll make a point of listening to you more often. At least about wine." The glass sparkled in the lamplight as Neville held it up to admire the colour of the wine within.

Silence settled upon them again, holding within it that same intangible something that made being together not as easy as it had once been.

"Astoria's pregnant," Draco blurted, before the silence could get comfortable and overstay its welcome.

Neville's eyebrows flew up in surprise. "Really?" The surprise turned to a look of confusion. "Do... do I congratulate you, or help you find torches and pitchforks?"

It was a moment before Draco understood the question. He barked a laugh. "No," he said, taking another sip of wine, "it's mine. The Malfoy name will continue at least another generation. My parents will be thrilled beyond reckoning when they hear the news."

Neville nodded slowly. "Gran tried to set me up with a similar arrangement," he admitted. "Several times. But I was stubborn, and..." he trailed off, and the colour in his cheeks grew more pronounced.

"Distracted," Draco offered.

"For lack of a better word." The look in his eyes grew distant. Draco stayed quiet; in this case, silence seemed the best poultice to draw out what Neville needed to say. Besides, he wasn't sure he knew how to put the strange apprehension he felt into words.

Finally, Neville sighed heavily and finished the last swallow of wine in his glass. "It's hard." Draco wordlessly poured him another glass and topped off his own. Neville ignored it and stood up, apparently needing to pace. "I used to be able to look at him sometimes, and know what he was thinking. Know that, for just a moment, he'd been thinking about me. Not that we'd ever do anything about it. But it was this..."

"Delicious tension," Draco said, rising from the table as well. "There's a line there, and you know that inevitably, one of you will cross it once the tension gets to be too much. So you revel in that tension." He handed Neville his abandoned wineglass.

Neville took it, the expression of astonishment plain on his face. "That's it exactly." He shook his head, as though coming back to himself. "But it's gone now. Thing of the past. Even if he could work his way around to... to thinking like that about me again..." He stared into his wineglass. "It's all for the best," he said suddenly, and took a long sip of the wine. "I was doing nothing but making a giant mess of his life. He's married now, and he's not going to remember how I nearly ruined that. I'll get over it in time."

Resting on his elbows as he leaned back against the counter, Draco gave Neville a long, appraising look. "You are a terrible liar."

Neville stared. "I'm sorry?"

The empty wineglass made a quiet clink as Draco set it down on the counter behind him. "I don't believe a single word of what you've said. I don't think you do either. 'It's for the best' is what everyone mutters to themselves when there's a situation they don't like and are too scared to do anything about."

The speed at which Neville's eyes went flinty was staggering. "I'm not scared. I just don't think anything good would come of trying to change things."

"Trying to fix things, you mean," Draco corrected. He could feel a flush at the back of his neck; on an empty stomach, the wine was going to his head particularly quickly. "You know how you want things to be. And you know how to make it so things are the way they were before, or at least damn close." He stepped closer to Neville and poked him hard in the sternum. "You just feel guilty that you want to be happy at someone else's expense."

In a steady, deliberate motion, Neville grabbed Draco's wrist and began twisting. With a small cry, Draco went up on his tiptoes in a vain attempt to take some of the pressure off.

"I don't like being touched," Neville said in a flat tone before letting go.

Draco rubbed at his wrist, scowling. "You don't, do you?" And then, because his mind was fogging up outrageously and pain had always made him belligerent, "Bet you'd let Potter touch you."

A lesser and more sober man would have cringed at the expression this wrought. Draco didn't so much as flinch as Neville set his jaw, eyes narrowing.

"Are you jealous?"

The question, demanding in its intensity, made every vitriolic word Draco had mustered evaporate. He blinked. "What?"

In the pretence of putting his wineglass on the table, Neville stepped closer. "Are you jealous of him?" This time the question was softer, but no less intense. Draco found it impossible to tear his eyes away.

"I've been jealous of Potter for going on thirteen years," he said, surprised at the honesty of the statement. "No reason to stop now."

"That's not much of an answer." Standing this close, Draco could smell the whiskey Neville had apparently enjoyed earlier before Draco had arrived.

"And what kind of answer would you prefer?"

Neville did not reply. Not with words.

It was a moment before Draco realised what had happened, and by then Neville had roughly grabbed his chin, tipped it upwards, and planted his mouth firmly against Draco's. He made a small, undignified sound of surprise, which cause his lips to part just slightly. Neville pushed his advantage, thrusting his tongue into Draco's mouth greedily.

It took every ounce of willpower Draco had to push sharply against Neville's shoulders and break away. They stood, barely a foot apart, staring at each other in utter disbelief.

"Thought you didn't like people touching you," Draco ventured after far too long.

"No." Neville sounded confused, and his brows knitted together to match the tone. " _I_ was touching _you_." He turned his back to Draco as though to peruse the wineglass again, but Draco knew better. He reached out, grasped Neville by one shoulder, and spun him round, meeting his lips once they faced each other again.

Draco could feel every muscle in Neville's back tighten, then unstiffen by small measures as Draco did nothing but lightly brush his lips against the other man's, tongue lapping out gently as though to taste. After an age of slow and languorous reassurance, Neville's hands crept to the back of Draco's neck and the small of his back, and the kiss began to give way to an astonishing ardour with a swiftness that set Draco's head to spinning. Having secured his position, Draco let his fingers trail up along the other man's jawline, running lightly over the rough stubble. Neville made an approving noise and his hand pressed more firmly into Draco's back, drawing him closer.

Interesting. Apparently Neville was of Draco's school of thought, and agreed that using teeth was entirely appropriate during a kiss of this heat. He'd not have expected that. Draco nipped at Neville's lower lip in response, drawing his teeth along it before letting go and gliding his tongue along Neville's again, suddenly unable to get enough. He was dimly aware that he'd shifted slightly to straddle Neville's thigh and was slowly grinding himself against it, the friction setting his nerves afire. Perhaps that was why he gasped when Neville curved his fingers in his hair, sending goosebumps down his spine and drawing a shiver from deep within him.

The gasp had broken the kiss and Draco stepped away. The expression on Neville's face was something between confused and mortified. Draco licked his lips, which felt slightly raw - he could taste the iron tinge of blood just barely drawn.

The silence pulsed between Draco's quickened heartbeats. He raked a hand through his hair to brush it out of his eyes.

"I... should probably go."

Neville just stood there, blinking at him. Draco began to get the feeling he'd done something very stupid.

"So. Er. Good night, I suppose." He began to back slowly out of the kitchen. He couldn't think of anything else to say, and Neville certainly didn't look like he was going to be able to contribute any words within a reasonable time frame. And when it came down to it, if Draco stayed in that kitchen much longer, he was likely to do something else very stupid.

He hadn't gone three steps before Neville lunged forward, hands going to Draco's shoulders and pinning him against the only blank wall of the tiny kitchen, hips pressing against Draco's own in an absolutely maddening way. Neville's mouth pressed against Draco's so roughly that the stubble stung against his cheek, and the visceral need that pulsed between them was impossible to ignore.

"I'm not Potter," Draco managed to force out as Neville took a break from his mouth to do delicious things to his earlobe.

Neville pulled away just enough to match eyes with him. "I'm not either," he said, his eyes shrewd. "He's shorter, you see, and he has darker hair and glasses."

"You know what I mean." The irritation in his voice fought with the huskiness of arousal. "Not five minutes ago you were mooning over him."

"And then you gave me something else to think about." Neville had absolutely no right to the expression on his face right now. It was downright predatory. Downright... Slytherin.

"I'm not Potter," Draco repeated stupidly. He felt oddly as though he'd completely lost control of the situation.

"I know." The other man seemed to come back to reality for a moment. "And you'll never be him." He traced Draco's jawline with a finger, and somehow Draco knew his delicate pointed jaw was being compared to Potter's squared one. "In fact, you're the exact opposite, in every possible way." He leaned forward and Draco shivered again as Neville breathed against his ear. "Maybe that's exactly what I need."

Ignoring his body's cries of _Traitor!,_ Draco gently pushed Neville away. "It's a terrible idea," he said shakily. God, even just his shoulders felt incredible.

Neville closed his eyes and took a steadying breath. "Yes. You're right. Bad idea." He took another step back.

They stood there in the kitchen, the moment slowly slipping away like a raindrop down a windowpane. Despite the disappointment thrumming through his veins, Draco found he could breathe slightly more easily.

Wordlessly, Neville walked over to the sink and turned the tap. He began to splash cold water on his face with trembling hands. Draco backed out of the kitchen, leaving Neville occupied to that task, thinking he might use the tap in the bathroom upstairs for the same purpose. It didn't seem a terrible idea.

Footsteps on the stairs made Draco freeze, water splashing into his palms and into the basin. He wiped his hand on a towel and stepped to the door.

Neville stood at the head of the staircase, his expression utterly unreadable. Draco raised an eyebrow, feeling a stray drop of water trickle down his neck into his collar.

"I've never knowingly given in to a bad idea before." There was that expression again, and it was merging with Neville's voice in such a way that it made Draco's knees go weak. "And I am so sick of doing what I'm supposed to. Of doing what I'm told." He didn't even seem to move before he was pressed against Draco again, nudging him backwards towards the bed. "I want to make a bad decision for once, and know that it's a terrible idea, and be stupid enough to do it anyway."

"It is a terrible idea," Draco protested weakly as Neville found the spot on his neck that seemed to turn every muscle in his body to jelly. He only just held back a moan and then the backs of his knees bumped against the bed and he was going over backwards.

Knees on either side, Neville made it perfectly clear that he was the one with the control, that he was the one who would be dictating this particular encounter. A thrill of excitement rushed through Draco at the thought - he'd been with a great many men who tried and failed to do what Neville was doing effortlessly.

He needed to make one thing perfectly clear, however, before things became too heated for either of them to think. He cleared his throat. "I don't bottom."

"That's a shame, because I don't either," Neville hummed against his neck.

Draco tensed. "I mean it. I'm sure your cocksmanship is amazing, but I don't bottom."

"You _mean_ it."

The ardent and passionate atmosphere had dissipated entirely, and Draco would not have been more shocked had snow begun to fall in the bedroom. Draco stared in disbelief as Neville stood, looking down at Draco on the bed, his hair dishevelled and his chest rising and falling with laboured breath.

"You think _I_ don't mean it?" There was an edge of something - hysteria? - to Neville's voice, and Draco opened his mouth uselessly, unable to find any words to fill it. "You think I'm being _coy_?"

"No - I -"

"Do you have any idea what it _takes_ to get me here?"

And then Neville was gone. Draco pushed himself up to sitting, listening to the footfalls as Neville retreated down the stairs to the living room. Draco's mind reeled as he tried to reconcile the last thirty seconds.

Something had gone horribly wrong, and he had no idea what he'd done.

* * *

Draco slipped silently into the chair across from Neville at the table. Neville was chewing the inside of his lip, obviously either deep in thought or trying to stop thinking.

"Most blokes, it's a preference not to bottom," Draco ventured after the silence had begun to grate upon him. "Seems more like a holy writ with you." He very carefully did not phrase it as a question, to leave Neville the option of not answering. Just an idle observation, to be responded to or not.

It was looking like not. Neville's face was clouded, his brows furrowed, the expression on his face a very clear "KEEP OUT" sign. Draco nodded and rose from his chair without another sound.

"You remember the Carrows?"

Neville's voice seemed very loud, and its sudden tenor made Draco nearly jump. He turned from the doorway, leaning against it casually. "Yeah?"

Neville looked to be fighting with himself, his shoulders hunched as he brought his arms up to cross them in front of him on the table, a posture so reminiscent of his school days that Draco blinked, startled. Neville stayed frozen like that for a few moments, then licked his lips. "They liked punishment, the Carrows did. Amycus in particular."

It slammed into place like an immense iron gate crashing shut. Draco felt the blood rush from his face and feed the sudden cold terror in his belly. "Oh god," he said. He took two strides forward and had reached out to - to do something, rub his shoulder, he didn't know - and his hand met the glossy nothingness of a shield. His entire arm from the elbow down went numb and he snapped it back, rubbing it.

For his part, Neville looked as though he wasn't even aware he had thrown up a shield at all. He probably didn't even realize he had. He was looking at the table - through the table, into the table, as though the wood was all that existed - and his eyes had darkened into thunderheads. "Mostly the girls. But I kept him from - from who I could. Most days it was worth the price."

Draco stood uselessly, rubbing the muscles of his forearm, at a loss for any sort of comforting words. "Neville," he said finally, and it was laughably inadequate. "I can't... you still...?"

Neville wrenched his eyes away from the tabletop and threw his gaze at Draco, who gulped to see that anger and pain directed at him in full force. "Of course 'I still,'" he spat derisively. "What was I supposed to do, let him think he'd won? Let him keep hurting those... those _children_?" Draco's mouth gaped open, and Neville returned to his study of the wood grain. "People ask me all the time why I'm an Auror. I've got plenty of answers that sound fantastic, about bravery and justice and doing what's right." He swallowed, looking faintly ill and obviously ignoring it. "It's all rubbish. I'm an Auror because of that sick and twisted son of a bitch, and everyone like him, and I'm going to lock each and every one up in a cell so dark that midnight has to ask directions."

A sick realization was twisting its way through Draco's stomach, sinuously curling just beneath his heart, making it suddenly hurt to breathe. "I'm sorry," he whispered, the image of the slowly turning handle of a Vanishing Cabinet floating in front of his vision. "God, Neville, I'm so sorry."

"Not your fault," Neville mumbled.

"Yes it is," Draco insisted, nausea fluttering at the back of his throat, making him taste metal. "I let them in. I started the whole chain of events, if it weren't for me Dumbledore -"

"Would have died a few weeks later, probably still by Snape's hand, and everything would have gone just the same way," Neville interrupted savagely. Draco shook his head miserably and opened his mouth. "SHUT UP, MALFOY!" Neville bellowed, rising from his chair and grasping Draco by the upper arms. Draco went rigidly still in what could really only be terror.

"Don't you dare try to take any of the blame that belongs to that worthless fuck," Neville's voice was seething like the water in a cauldron just before it begins to boil. "You've atoned for the crimes you committed out of ignorance. Don't for one instant think you're responsible for anything that happened to me. That's between me and Amycus, and for what he did, he's rotting in Azkaban and if I have my way - and I will, because I know his fucking arresting officer - he will never see daylight again."

"Language, Longbottom. I have a delicate disposition." The words had just kind of escaped from the part of his brain that did nothing but pen clever responses, and as he heard himself deliver them he felt his blood freeze. It was possible that in the history of the world, there had been a worse time to be a smartass, but the chance was slim to none.

Miraculously, though, the line between Neville's brows smoothed just a touch, and then he barked out a confused, sickly-sounding laugh as he let go of Draco's upper arms. Draco was about to breathe a great sigh of relief but that was thwarted by Neville's sudden crushing embrace squeezing the air from his lungs in a giant whoosh as he buried his head in Draco's shoulder and began to sob.

This, Draco knew how to handle. He awkwardly lowered the both of them to the kitchen floor, finally situating them with Neville's head in the crossed legs of his lap, stroking Neville's hair softly.

Harry had done the same thing for him on his disastrous wedding night. It was the sort of thing decent blokes who had a thing for each other did.

"We are so fucked," Draco said to nobody.

"Language, Malfoy," Neville said thickly. Draco laughed mirthlessly and shook his head, not surprised to find tears of his own pricking at the corners of his eyes.


	7. Beginnings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _It's been quite a while since I've posted in this story, and for good reason: I've had a beta go over it and it's been restructured and rewritten slightly. If the last time you read this was when Chapter 6 was brand new, I'd suggest rereading - there have been some new additions quite aside from this new chapter here._

Someone was pounding on the door.

Draco's eyes popped open and he blinked, disoriented. Sunlight was streaming in the window and for a moment he forgot what had awoken him, and then the pounding began at the door again.

The bedroom was familiar - he'd been waking up in it every morning until two weeks ago - and so the bottom did not drop out of his stomach until he tried to sit up and found his arm trapped under Neville's neck.

His brain began slowly offering memories of the night before. Draco refusing to leave, somehow certain that something terrible would happen if Neville was left alone in this state. Neville not resisting as Draco hauled him up to bed, but not relinquishing his grip on Draco's wrist when Draco would have headed down to the sofa.

Draco relenting, allowing himself to be pulled down onto the mattress. The feel of the occasional tremor that shivered through Neville's back as Draco held him, feeling terribly out of place but sensing that his presence was direly needed.

The pounding on the door was more insistent now. Draco took a hasty inventory - boxers. That was it. He didn't actually remember having stripped down, which would have been worrying if Neville had not been in an undershirt and pyjama bottoms.

"Neville, open the door or I'll get Clay to open it for me!"

Draco's eyes widened as he recognised the muffled voice, and he yanked his arm out from under Neville, who didn't move. Either he was a heavy sleeper or he was pretending to be fast asleep. Draco suspected the latter, as he still didn't stir even as Draco got out of bed.

He had absolutely no intention of answering the door half naked, but for the life of him he could not find his shirt. He absently wondered if he'd got too hot and Vanished it during the night, which was a definite possibility - it wouldn't have been the first time he'd done it. His eyes landed on the dark navy T-shirt he'd commandeered several weeks ago; he snatched it up and pulled it over his head before heading down the stairs and yanking open the door.

Potter blinked at him, jaw dropping open slightly in surprise. "Malfoy?" he asked in demanding disbelief. "What the... what the actual fuck are you doing here?"

"Language, Potter," Draco said in his best infuriating drawl. It really was quite a clever retort, after all, and it would be a pity if no one else ever heard it.

It wasn't nearly as amusing when Potter drew his wand and pointed it at him in one fluid motion faster than Draco's eye could follow. "This isn't funny, Malfoy. You have ten seconds to explain what you're doing here."

"Ten seconds? How generous." He couldn't help himself. He stared challengingly at Potter and counted down mentally in his head - slightly faster than actual seconds, because who knew how wound up Potter was - before blurting, "Neville's my friend."

"Bullshit. Neville doesn't have friends, and he wouldn't be friends with you. You have ten more seconds."

God, he was annoying, the way he assumed he always spouted absolute truth. "Fine. I'm wearing his shirt. You draw your own conclusions." Draco crossed his arms and leaned against the banister of the stairs, rather enjoying the expression this wrought on Potter's face.

"You're lying." Potter's wand hand did not shake, but his voice was definitely unsteady. "Neville's wouldn't - he - he just wouldn't."

"Maybe I would."

Both Draco's and Potter's heads snapped around as Neville slowly descended the stairs, raking a hand through dishevelled hair and doing nothing to tame it. Draco had to suppress a highly inappropriate hum of appreciation - not everyone could make the "just woke up" look so appealing.

"You're Imperiused. That's the only explanation." Potter did not drop his wand, even when Neville rolled his eyes.

"Harry, look at me. Look in my eyes. You know what an Imperiused person's pupils look like." Neville stopped inches away from Harry, staring down intently. Draco swallowed and licked his lips as Potter looked up into Neville's face, wand not dropping so much as becoming less firm, the aim not as precisely focused on Draco's jugular.

"Then he's coercing you," Potter said finally, after several long moments of staring, during which Neville's face had softened an alarming amount and Draco had been sure that at any moment he was going to witness something he really didn't want to see. "He's - this is Malfoy, Neville. You remember him, right? Wait - did he get you with a love potion? That's it, isn't it?"

Neville sighed heavily. "Goddammit, Harry." He reached out and put his arm around Draco possessively. Draco tried to keep his face irritatingly smug. "Is it really that hard to believe?"

"Yes," Potter said bluntly. "Yes, it really is."

"Get over yourself, Potter," Draco said, rolling his eyes and leaning back against Neville. He was surprised to find that Neville was shaking, very slightly. "I don't need a love potion to get what I want."

Potter's wand had lowered completely, and he was switching his unbelieving gaze between Draco and Neville fast enough to make Draco's head spin on his behalf. "You can't be serious." It was impossible to tell which one of them he was addressing.

As though in response, Neville tipped Draco's chin up and met his lips in what was possibly the most unexpected kiss in the history of the world. It was warm and almost playful and, Draco realised, perfectly engineered to make any onlooker obscenely jealous. He could not help but watch Potter's reaction through a barely-open eye, which was an incredibly gratifying combination of abject disbelief and horror.

Neville pulled away, his expression indecipherable. "I'm going to take a personal holiday today," he said in the most practised offhanded tone Draco had ever heard. It was almost comical.

Potter twitched. It was nearly imperceptible, but Draco saw it plain as day: a flicker of fury, replaced quickly by incredulity and an expression that could only be described as "at a loss for words".

"Okay," Potter said faintly, after a very long time of just looking between the two of them. "I'll, uh, I'll just do paperwork today."

He backed out of the flat and shut the door behind him, the bewildered look on his face not wavering. Draco waited until he could hear Potter's footfalls on the stairs before placing both hands on Neville's chest and shoving. Hard.

"What the fuck are you on about?" he growled.

"Saving you from getting your bollocks hexed off, that's what," Neville responded hotly. "Harry shoots first and asks questions later, when he bothers asking the questions - that's what he's got me for."

"And sticking your tongue down my throat was the best way to ensure that? Are you completely oblivious to the notion of class?" Draco was not sure why he felt as though he'd been horribly offended. Actually, no, he was sure. The expression on Neville's face as he and Potter had locked eyes had flickered to desperation and hunger just before they'd broken it. Draco had a very strong feeling that had it lasted a bare second longer, it would have been him looking on in bafflement, not Potter.

And then, to blow off steam, he'd turned to Draco. In the clarity of sobriety, Draco was not sure he was willing to be used in quite that fashion.

"It was the quickest way to prove to him I was serious." Crossing his arms over his chest, Neville leaned against the wall and glared down. "And as I recall, you're the one who decided to use that particular ruse when you pointed out you were wearing my shirt. What, were you trying to make him jealous?"

"Bit hard to do that, as he doesn't remember he's in love with you," Draco spat. Instantly he regretted it, as Neville's jaw clenched.

"He's not - he never -"

"Admit it. You'd kick me out so fast my head would be spinning if you could have half an hour with him." He should really, really shut up. Right now. "But you fucked that up, so you'll settle for me."

"Like you're not doing the same." Neville's voice had gone flat, his arms uncrossing as he placed them on the banister of the stairs, leaning forward until their foreheads were nearly touching. "How many of your rent boys did you pretend were him?"

"At least I've been laid since him," Draco shot back.

"Yes, your roster is something to brag about," Neville said coldly. "A whole series of mindless fucks that aren't worth half a Sickle."

"Maybe if you tried it, you'd be able to look at your goddamn partner without wanting to fuck him against the nearest tree."

And there it was. He'd pushed too far. Draco managed to keep his glare in place as Neville's face went completely emotionless and blank, but only just. Any minute now he was going to be thrown out again, and this time it wasn't going to be as easy to get back in Neville's good graces, if Draco had ever really been in them to begin with -

"Fine then. Let's go."

Draco blinked as Neville straightened, his eyes hard. "What?"

"You think that'll fix me? Then fix me. Let's go, right now. Teach me how to not care anymore." Backwards, one step at a time, Neville began slowly ascending the stairs, his face set in a challenging glare.

"That's not what I -"

"Why not? If you're so good at it, it shouldn't be any trouble at all, should it?"

"Stop it, Neville. Just stop." Closing his eyes tightly, Draco pressed the heels of his hands against them, hard enough to see sparks.

"You were eager enough last night -"

"Last night was different -"

"Different?" Neville's voice was scathing and he'd stopping backing up the stairs. "What, you discover I'm an emotional cripple and that makes things different?"

"I said stop." It felt like a growl. Draco needed to turn around, right now, and walk out of this flat. Instead, he stayed stubbornly rooted to the spot, fingers going to rub at his temples, his stomach twisting as he it became more and more difficult to keep his temper from boiling over. "You don't actually want to anyway - you're just all worked up and want to do something stupid so you can blame me for it -"

Apparently to better scowl at Draco, Neville stepped down a few stairs. "I suppose now you're sober you've decided I don't meet the qualifications for your random pulls -"

"Too right you don't!" Draco wrenched his hands away from his face and glared up at Neville. "I actually give a damn whether I hurt you or not!"

An unreadable wash of emotions flooded Neville's face, smoothing the angry ridges of his brows and forcing his jaw to drop, just slightly. "I'm - say again?"

"Shit," Draco muttered, the words he had just spoken registering in his mind. "Never mind."

"Draco." Neville was at the bottom of the stairs now, mere feet from Draco. "What did you mean by that?"

It was very obvious that Neville was not going to give up. Draco huffed out a heavy sigh. "You don't belong on my roster of meaningless fucks," he said carefully. There. Let Neville read into that however he wanted. Draco wasn't sure he could bring himself to say it any more plainly than that.

"Because you care."

Dammit. "Just - shut it, all right?" Draco spun and stalked across the room. He didn't get far; the flat wasn't large, but any distance he could get would help right now.

"It's not just some - some game of seduction for you, then?" From the sound of his voice, Neville was still back over by the bottom of the stairs. Good. He hadn't followed.

"Neville, I am two hundred percent done talking about this," Draco said very firmly to the wall.

It was a mark of just how well he knew Neville that he could imagine the look of frustration that accompanied the other man's grunting exhalation. "Fine. Be done. Shut me out. It's not as though I'm worthy of having an opinion on this, after all."

"We need to talk about Potter," Draco said flatly.

The stunned silence was as profound as a thunderclap. "We really, _really_ don't."

Draco turned. "You saw him, plain as day. He was furious."

"Only for a second."

"Yeah. For a second. Half a second. And then he was just confused." Comprehension was beginning to dawn on Neville's face, but Draco barrelled on. "You know him. Would he have just tamped down that kind of anger?"

Neville shook his head. "No. He'd have let you have it." He licked his lips. "You think it's the Memory Charm."

"No. I think it's something that would have been a Memory Charm if you'd had a wand and half a clue what you were doing." The subject change had been successful; Draco allowed himself to feel a moment of triumph. "Which you didn't, on either count, and now his mind is seriously fucked over. He's half-remembering things, but the magic's not letting it into his working memory, and it's going to rip his mind to shreds." He paused for a long moment, trying to decide how much to divulge. "I've seen it before. It's not pretty."

"What do you want me to do about it?" Neville demanded, slightly shrilly. "I don't even know what I did, let alone how to undo it -"

"An Obliviator would. Or a Healer." Draco studied Neville's face carefully; the other man looked decidedly ill.

"I'd lose him for sure," Neville said softly.

"You lose him either way." It was blunt and more than a little cruel, but this was not a time to mince words. "In both cases, it's your fault, but one is by accident and the other is by conscious choice." Draco shrugged, beginning to feel sick himself as he watched what his words were doing to Neville. "He'll be angry, but he'll probably forgive you. It's _Potter_ , for fuck's sake."

Nodding faintly, Neville licked his lips before he spoke again. "How long?"

"How should I know? I'm hardly an expert." The sardonic slant to his words gave Draco pause. It was easy to be blunt and cocky; revealing that he didn't know was almost like admitting a weakness, and he had spent far too many years perfecting the illusion that if he didn't know about it, he didn't care about it. But... This was Neville. Something about the man made Draco want to be genuine. It was an unsettling feeling, and Draco let out a heavy sigh. "Maybe a few weeks? Even a few months? I don't know. He should start showing definite signs - I mean, he's not going to fall over drooling tomorrow." I don't think, he didn't add. "But I wouldn't take too long."

"He's going to be..." Neville swallowed. "Very angry."

"Better angry than insane." Too late, Draco remembered Neville's sensitivity to mentions of insanity, but the other man didn't even flinch.

There did not seem to be a graceful way to end the conversation, but it didn't appear to matter; Neville's eyes had taken on the too-familiar soft faraway cast that meant he was lost in thought, and he merely stepped to the side without a word as Draco passed him on the way to the stairs.

A quick survey of the bedroom proved that either someone had hidden Draco's clothes or he had in fact Vanished them in the night. Well, that didn't matter; Conjured clothing would at least get him out to the street where he could Apparate, assuming he could keep his concentration that long.

Neville was sitting on the sofa when Draco returned downstairs. His eyes flicked over Draco's illusory wardrobe for a moment, barely doing more than registering the fact that Draco was dressed, before returning to their out-of-focus contemplation of the empty air.

Draco cleared his throat. "I'm - I'll leave you to think about things."

Blinking, Neville looked up at him. "You're leaving?"

"Didn't I just say that?" There it was, that hard, mocking tone again. What was it about this morning that made it so easy for Draco to fall into it? "You've got a lot of thinking to do, and I'll just get in the way."

"You won't, actually, as most of it's about you." Neville rose from the sofa and took a step forwards; Draco took a corresponding step backwards without even thinking about it, his chest suddenly tight.

"Don't. Just - just don't, Neville. You've got to work out what you're going to do about Potter -"

"There's only one thing _to_ do about that," Neville interjected gravely. "That was the easy decision, even if it's going to be - well, difficult to carry it out." He took another step forwards, but Draco was already against the banister of the stairs and couldn't retreat any further. "You, on the other hand..."

"Also an easy decision." Draco sidestepped and let his hand fall on the handle of the door. "I won't let myself be the person you settle for because you can't have Potter."

Eyes wide and with the colour draining from his face, Neville looked as though he had just been punched in the stomach. "I don't - that's not -"

"I've been your Potter substitute ever since you picked me up in that alley. He's constantly on your mind. I can't compete with that, and I'm not even going to try, not when the prize is to know that you'd rather have him - that there's even a competition in the first place. That I'm fighting with a person who isn't even there." Even though his hand was on the door, Draco couldn't make himself turn the handle.

"You're jealous." The accusation sounded incredulous.

"No. I'm realistic. You don't want to be some game of seduction for me? You're not. You never were." Neville's eyes flicked down to Draco's chest and Draco had the feeling that he'd lost his concentration and let his Conjured clothing fall back away into the nothingness from whence they had come. "But I'm sure as hell not going to be some stand-in because you can't have what you really want. Even a random meaningless fuck is more honest than that."

"You are unbelievably thick." Neville almost sounded amused.

Thrown off by the non sequitur, Draco blinked. "What?"

"Harry and I - he was getting _married_. I'd already given up on him. I was never going to have him. I was fully prepared to spend the rest of my life alone and then I come home one day and the man I've been playing nursemaid for is wearing my shirt." Neville's eyes purposefully wandered down to the shirt Draco was wearing again before popping back up to Draco's face. "I've tried being attracted to other people. Men and women. But that evening, you were the first person aside from Harry that I _wanted_." Somehow he had moved very close to Draco, close enough that Draco had to look up to meet his eyes. "You're not a substitute. You're not a replacement. You're the next step - a beginning of something new."

Draco's vocabulary was not cooperating with him. "You must really like this shirt."

"I like it on you."

"Um." Suddenly very aware that he was in boxers and a T-shirt and Neville was in a similar, if less revealing, state of undress, Draco swallowed. He felt feverish, and only part of it could be blamed on the obvious physiological reaction to Neville standing so close. "I don't know what you want from me," he blurted finally, and it sounded pathetic. "I mean, aside from sex. Because it sounds like you want a lot more than just that. And I don't have a lot more than that. I'm kind of married, remember? And I have a kid on the way. And even though Tori and I have reached a bit of an - unorthodox agreement, I can't be -"

"For now, I'll settle for being on your short list of meaningful shags," Neville interrupted. "And you can be on my short list."

"Do you even have a list?" Draco asked with reflexive sarcasm.

"Yes. Once I add you, it'll have two entries. That's enough to call it a list, right?" His crooked grin seemed almost shy. "Oh. And one more thing."

"And what's that?"

The crooked grin changed slightly, became more confident as Neville leaned down until their lips were almost touching. "I hope that you'll still be just as difficult to get rid of. I've got used to having company in the evenings. This last week has been just a little bit terrible."

"We'll see about that. I might be a horrible disappointment to you. You might not even want me ar-" Draco was cut off as Neville closed the distance between their mouths in a long, languorous kiss that pressed Draco against the door and left them both slightly breathless.

Heart racing and skin tingling, Draco almost didn't hear Neville's next words. "I'm going to assume that the bottoming issue is non-negotiable."

Emboldened and light-headed, Draco grinned mischievously. "For now. But my mouth's good for more than just showcasing my sparkling wit."

Neville looked surprised, pleased, and shocked at the same time. He licked his lips. "Care to show me?"

Draco felt his stomach give a little tumble in anticipation as, in answer, he pulled Neville down to sit atop him on the stairs.


End file.
